


To Study Oneself

by subtextual_silver_linings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Adrenaline, Character Development, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, Intensity, John Watson - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, Kissing, London, Love, M/M, Romance, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Slash, University, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:40:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 54
Words: 214,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subtextual_silver_linings/pseuds/subtextual_silver_linings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Not even a naked Sally Donovan made my heart race, lungs ache or... palms <i>sweat</i> as much as you did earlier." John looked up at Sherlock with his trademark half-smile, shaking his head back and forth in muted disbelief. "All that, just from breaking into a bloody building. What the hell have I gotten myself into with you?"</p><p><b>(Unversity!Lock) AU:</b> When depression threatens to turn John Watson's life upside down, things seem to only get worse when his tutor assigns William Sherlock Scott Holmes to help him with his studies: then again, with someone as unpredictable as Sherlock in his life, John starts to realise that maybe 'upside down' is exactly where he wants to be. <b>RATED 'M' for language, intimate content & intensity!</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Personal Academic Tutor

** Chapter One ******

“I'm concerned about you, John,” the red-headed woman on the opposing side of the desk to him sighed, ruffling through the papers she held in her stubby, ringed fingers, “and I'm not the only one. All of your class tutors -”

“I know.”

She took her glasses off, closing her eyes and pinching the top of her nose before opening her eyes and gazing at the twenty-three year old wearily. “Do you? Because the John Watson I know doesn't get below fifty percent on an essay. The John Watson I personally interviewed for a place on this course doesn't get below fifty and seem completely unperturbed.” Slowly she put the papers down, taking in his form carefully. “If something is going on, John, you need to tell us. We can't help you if -”

“I know,” he cut across again, his mottled blue-brown eyes flicking up to meet her steady gaze before dropping back to stare at the desk in front of them. “I'm sorry.”

Joanne Harvey sighed once more, leaning back in her chair, fingers idly playing with her wire-rimmed glasses. “I'm not sure what you're apologising for. Could you maybe expand on that?”

“Is this a therapy session?” His tone was curt, a cutting and sarcastic enquiry; instantly he regretted it, seeing her eyebrows raise high behind her fringe and the tightening of her jaw. He raised his hands out in surrender, or perhaps more likely in defence. “I'm sorry. For that. And for the bad marks. I know... I know it's not what you expect from me.”

With the experienced stare of a woman who had been teaching young, intelligent minds for the last twenty years, Joanne's mind started to tick as she looked him over. His hair, usually at least combed, was longer, sticking up all over the place. His clothes – a rumpled pale blue shirt and faded jeans – looked as if they had been slept in, perhaps even unwashed for a few days. His eyes were half-ringed by dark circles, skin pale, and if she were a betting sort of woman she would have bet her pearl earrings that he hadn't been eating properly. It seemed she had been missing something for the last few weeks.

“John.”

He did not look up at her, but he tilted his chin up slightly to indicate that he was listening.

“John, would you like to talk to someone?”

A brief, humourless smile fled across his lips and disappeared as quickly as it had come. “I'm talking to you now.”

“No,” she said gently, leaning forward and steepling her fingers in front of her, resting her chin lightly on top of her fingertips. “I mean talk to someone who... might be able to help you.”

Finally he looked up, staring at her incredulously. “Are you telling me to speak to a... I don't know, a therapist? A counsellor?”

“No,” she repeated herself, keeping the same frustratingly even tone, “no, I'm not telling you to do anything. It's completely your decision. I've just found in the past that when students, highly intelligent young students such as yourself, are struggling with the workload sometimes talking to someone can really make a difference.”

John's expression was flat, his tone even more so. “I'm not struggling with the workload. The workload is bearable.”

The way he phrased it spoke volumes to her well-versed ear. “Then what _isn't_ bearable, John? What are you struggling with if it's not the workload?”

John's lips separated for a moment, seemingly considering his answer – alas, another humourless smile twitched at the corners of his mouth; he shook his head slowly, placing his palms flat on the desk as he pushed himself up. “No, y'know... I don't think I want to have this conversation.”

Joanne stayed seated, wanting to allow him to have the upper hand here. “With me, or with anyone?”

“With anyone,” he pushed out through his tight smile, forcing his eyes to stay on hers. “I mean you no disrespect, Joanne, as I know you're just doing your job and you have my best interests at heart – I do know that. But I can't. I just... I can't. I'm sorry.” He laughed slightly, a dull ring falling from his throat. “Apparently I'm sorry about a lot of things today.”

Now she stood, putting her glasses back on and looking down at him with a mixture of sympathy and steeliness, an odd combination that made John's stomach tense. “I understand that you don't want to explain things to me, John, but I simply cannot fathom the idea that you care so little about your degree that you're unwilling to give me something to work with. I'm your personal tutor and so yes, you're right that it's my job to make sure you don't fail, but more importantly it's in my _interest_ that you find a way around this academic block you seem to be facing! Believe it or not I do care about your future, and unless you give me something that I can take back to your seminar leaders I just don't know if I'm going to be able to help you get a concession for your most recent work.”

Taking in a few measured breaths, John took a careful step backwards. “I'm sorry.”

“John -”

“I'll work harder. I'll get it done. I'll bring my marks up.”

Joanne walked around the desk, slow and calm as she spread her fingers out wide in front of her as if in some sort of attempt to keep him from bolting from the office as he so clearly wanted to do. “That's good. I'm glad you want to do that. But I think we're both overlooking something here, and I really think that if you -”

“Look, I'm sorry to do this, but I've actually got a study session to get to,” he interrupted, glancing behind him at the door as if he wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of there. “With some of my flatmates, you know.”

She was not fooled. “At least consider -”

“I'm terribly late,” he mumbled, taking two steps back, hand stretched out behind him towards the door – in this motion she caught a flash of his upbringing, his inability to be impolite and turn his back on a person ranked above him regardless of how cornered or stressed he was clearly feeling. “I really must go, I am sorry.”

“But...” She sighed, allowing him to win this one. “All right. You can go. But please John, just remember that we're here to help you, not judge you. If you need extra support, you need only say.”

So desperate to escape this situation as he was, Johns head began to nod, words falling out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“Yeah, extra support, sounds like a good idea – look, I really have to go but thanks Joanne, thanks again, and sorry, sorry...”

He slid out of the door without turning his back for a single moment, closing the door quietly after him and speeding off so quickly that his shoes squeaked audibly on the flooring all the way down the hallway. Joanne stayed standing for a few moments, listening until the squeaking had dissipated, her mind instantly cranking into gear and turning over the possibilities. What she wanted to do in response to her growing concern was to contact the university counselling service and put through a recommendation that he be contacted – after all, he had agreed (albeit hastily and probably with no intention of actually seeking support) to the idea of help – but she was well aware that if she did this she would no doubt push him away; young John Watson was clearly someone who did not want to face up to whatever he was going through, and she would not be responsible for making it worse.

Academic support on the other hand was her forte, and it was well within her rights as his personal tutor to arrange something. If she could find someone to help him with his studies, to support him in his workload, perhaps he would find the clarity to deal with whatever else was going on in his life – at least, that was what she would tell herself. She couldn't just do nothing. He was one of the brightest students she had come across in years.

Then again... ah. There was the answer. A small smile formed on her lips. ****

Walking back around to the other side of her desk, Joanne sat down heavily on her desk chair and pulled her laptop towards her. With diligent fingers and John's downcast face in her mind, she opened up Microsoft Outlook and began typing a new email.

**-X-**

He did not need a counsellor to tell him what was wrong.

The days were darker. There had been no trigger, no real warning signs; one day he had been fine, studying in the library as usual, calling up Mike from his student flat on campus to make arrangements for their bi-weekly piss-up, looking at girls with a distant, shy interest... and then he had woken up the next day. Nothing much had changed – he still got out of bed, brushed his teeth, combed his hair, but there was something slightly off about it, something he couldn't put his finger on. He'd got his things together for his seminar, notebooks and pens, but as he'd gone to pull his bedroom door open he'd found himself hesitating for no apparent reason; his mind still felt fuzzy, furred at the edges, and at first he simply considered the idea that perhaps he hadn't slept well enough or that he was coming down with something. Turning his head, he looked to his rumpled bed and felt the first strange dullness start to seep through his veins – he didn't want to go to class today. Perhaps he should have a bit of a nap instead, especially if his head wasn't _all there._

So he had dumped notebook and bag down by the side of his desk and shucked off his trainers, shuffling over to the bed and crawling back into it. He didn't sleep – instead he found himself staring up at the ceiling with his mind beginning to spin a mile a minute, none of his thoughts really taking hold so that he could at least think about _something_... but his mind felt full regardless. He tried to think about the course material that they would be covering today, the material that he would miss – something to do with genes – but it was all a bit difficult to focus on, so John gave up on that. Instead he let his mind attempt to latch on to his and Mike's big night out tomorrow, thinking of how he would finally get to speak to that girl he'd seen constantly around campus, Mary something... and yet that didn't hold either. The thought just whirled itself away with the others, blurring into a dull sort of grey mess as it span in the recesses of his mind and leaving him simply staring at nothing, thinking of nothing.

He was probably just tired.

So he slept. He slept through the missed lecture and seminar, slept through two missed calls from Mike, woke up once and saw the darkening sky and decided that he may as well sleep some more. When he had finally awoken properly at 3am, he laid in bed for a further hour, staring at the ceiling and wondering what form of illness this odd feeling would take – perhaps the flu. It would explain why his body was still tired despite excessive sleep and explain his lack of concentration. But he'd try to go to his seminar tomorrow, of that he was certain. He couldn't miss two days in a row.

Yet here he was now, two months later and more than a few handfuls of missed seminars and lectures littering the ground beneath his dragging feet. His marks were dipping considerably, his attendance more so – he had not spoken to Mike in two weeks, dodging his calls, unable to force himself to even attempt to be sociable. He had gritted his teeth through phone calls from his parents, forcing himself to lie about how university was going, about how his essays were being written far in advance and that his personal tutor couldn't be more pleased with him; his mother had lapped it up eagerly, so proud of her son. She had sent him letters from his grandparents, gently pushing with loving words to encourage him to write back – and usually he would. Usually it would take little to no effort to write out a little letter to any member of his family with updates from his life at university. They were all impressed, especially considering how his sister Harry was spending her life at the moment. When he really thought about it – and thinking wasn't really in his repertoire these days – the way that he was currently spending his time would probably still be considered better than drowning in alcohol and women, which pretty much summed up Harry's life.

Instead, John was drowning in nothing.

Major depressive disorder – that was what it was called. Though he wasn't what you'd call _knowledgeable_ about mental health issues, he knew enough to be certain that what had been taking over his life since term started was depression. It was... embarrassing. A weakness. He knew that it ran in his family, knew it was something that would have probably visited him in an unwelcome appearance at some point during his life but the fact that it was now, during his first year of university... then again, at least it was this first year, his pre-medical year. After having left school with three A Levels and none of them in a science (and having taken a year out to travel, the ultimate gap year stereotype), he was now required to take an initial year covering all three sciences and, should he fail, he'd also fail to continue to the actual five-year medical course. If he let this... this _thing_ take over his life as he had so far, he would never become a doctor. He'd never be what he wanted to be, dreamed of being.

His depressive habits hadn't changed much since those first few days of it settling into his system. He still slept too much. He hadn't really been eating right, mostly because he was loathe to leave his room for too long lest he see someone who would try to talk to him and end up wondering why they had sought him out when he was clearly no more interesting than a slipper. His thoughts primarily consisted of either not much of anything at all, a messy mulch, or the constant thought of what a failure he was turning out to be. Maybe if there had been some sort of situation that had set it off, maybe if a relative had died or he'd been rejected by a woman or even if his self-esteem had taken a plummet he could have blamed it on that and dealt with the issue at the base of it, but the cold, hard fact remained that there was nothing that had set the depression off. It had just... appeared. It had taken the foundations from beneath the usually grounded and sensible young man and turned him into a walking, barely-talking shadow of his former self.

He stared at this version of himself now, eyes flat and emotionless as he stared into the mirror that hung, slightly crooked, over his sink. His eyes had seemingly lost their colour, any strong hints of brown or blue all melding together in some sort of dull grey; his light brown hair, though now washed after forcing himself to have a shower (which he had rather desperately needed) was messed up and sticking up on one side after having dozed off with it still damp; his clothes were crinkled, his iron sitting unused to one side of his desk for the last four weeks. He'd managed to go about his life almost as normal for the first month, still doing his work, missing some seminars and lectures but essentially eating somewhat normally (though at ridiculous times of the morning depending on when he woke up) and still making the effort to at least _look_ like a human being – when this had changed, he hadn't really noticed. It had just become part of his new routine. Not bothering... yes, that was his new routine. He had no idea how to change that. He wouldn't see a counsellor – damn Joanne for even suggesting it, damn her – and he wouldn't talk to anyone, wouldn't lean on anyone, he could deal with this alone...

_~Bing~_

The noise was muffled, the jumper he had thrown over his laptop three days ago almost completely hiding the sound but yes, there it was, the sound of yet another e-mail cluttering his already crammed university email inbox... John felt himself exhale, his body turning slowly to go over to the old machine. He hadn't checked his emails for days, knowing there would be more messages from his tutors who were trying so hard to be understanding whilst at the same time clearly losing patience with him and his lack of attendance; he hadn't even told them his suspicions of what was going on with his head, he didn't dare. The minute he admitted it to them they'd force him to do something about it and he wasn't ready for that. Not at all.

Pushing the sweatshirt unceremoniously off of the laptop and onto the floor, he sat on the edge of his desk chair and moved his mouse erratically, reawakening the screen and slowly lighting up until he could see the page in front of him.

_Hello, John Watson. You have 17 new emails._

Huh. Seventeen. He'd probably slept through most of them. Sighing, he moved his mouse over the ones which said things such as 'LONDON UNIVERSITY OF SCIENCES STUDENT UNION MEMBERS, HALF PRICE DRINKS TONIGHT' and 'Attendance Concerns' and instantly deleted them, knowing that whatever was in them was of no bother to him – after his conversation with Joanne yesterday he was almost certain that she would have spoken to his seminar leaders already, though what she could have possibly said was a mystery to him. Like everything these days, he didn't particularly care what was said.

He started scrolling through the rest, eyes barely scanning the contents, deleting each one as he went – finally he went to delete one final email, the most recent, when suddenly his eyes caught the subject heading and he felt his stomach tense, though in frustration, anger or embarrassment he was completely unsure.

John swallowed hard, forcing himself to read:

* * *

 

**To:** Watson, J  
 **From:** Holmes, W  
 **Date:** April 17th 2013 – 9:52pm  
 **Subject:** Academic Tutor (Joanne Harvey recommendation)

_John,_

_Having been given your name by Joanne Harvey at the London University of Sciences it is now my duty to inform you that I have been assigned to you as a Personal Academic Tutor (though for the sake of time I will now refer to myself as your 'PAT' when necessary). I have been instructed to assure you of my willingness to help you within the realms of academia and am to make myself available to you at any time should you need assistance with your general course content and subsequent essay submissions._

_Please note that though the phrase 'any time' was in fact used by Jo Harvey, I would prefer that you only contact me between the hours of 6am to 6pm on weekdays, though in special circumstances I would also allow contact during the same hours on a weekend. Please also be aware that, as your PAT, I am merely an accessory to your learning and will not consider 'special circumstances' to be anything other than academic emergencies._

_Please e-mail me presently to arrange an initial meeting to further discuss your requirements._

_Sincerely,_  
 _William Sherlock Scott Holmes_

* * *

 

John's jaw tightened, left hand curling into a ball as he let the words blur to nothing; so Joanne had gone and arranged help for him, had she? Hadn't he expressly said that he didn't want help? I mean, sure, he'd quickly spouted something in his panic about having extra support but he'd thought she had meant with her or with his seminar leaders, not with some middle-aged twat he didn't even know! This William Holmes, this obviously stuck-up, jumped-up PAT or whatever, he was nothing to John, even more of a nothing than everything else in his life – it was none of his business how John was doing in his course! The frustration was overwhelming, an odd sort of relief after the last two months of emptiness – John almost felt as if he could wrap his arms around it, a real and solid emotion for the first time in what felt like an endless space of time.

But then he remembered why he was frustrated.

Hesitating for a few moments, trying to force himself to remember how to communicate without simply repeating 'I know' and 'I'm sorry' over and over, he hit the reply button with perhaps a little more force than necessary and slowly started typing out a response to the unwelcome stranger.

* * *

 

_William,_

_Please don't consider me rude, however I didn't ask Joanne Harvey to set me up with a personal academic tutor and I don't particularly think I need one. I recommend you find someone who actually needs help, as I'm sure there are many students who would benefit from your 'services' more than me._

_Thanks._

_John._

* * *

 

Not bothering to close the laptop, John quickly left the room to nip to the toilet, determined not to potentially bump into anyone who would try and initiate a conversation with him. He waited a few moments after washing his hands, listening out to ensure that nobody was lingering in the hallway before pulling open the door and hurrying back into his dark room, locking the door behind him and glancing at the screen of his laptop before readying himself to collapse onto his bed.

_Hello, John Watson. You have 1 new email._

Eyes narrowing, he forced himself to sit opposite the computer once more and squinted at the too-bright screen, gaze zeroing in on the sender and feeling his brow crease. Holmes, W. It was ten o'clock on a Friday night, what the hell was this guy doing on his university email account? At least John had an excuse, he had no life at the moment to speak of, but this guy probably had a wife, kids, some sort of life outside of being a tutor!

John opened the email, perched on the edge of his seat.

* * *

 

**To:** Watson, J  
 **From:** Holmes, W  
 **Date:** April 17th 2013 – 10:06pm  
 **Subject:** RE: Academic Tutor (Joanne Harvey recommendation)

_John,_

_It was my understanding that you are currently struggling with your studies. My recommendation is that you do indeed take the opportunity of using my services, should you wish to complete your pre-medical year and go on to medical training._

_Please contact me to discuss your needs._

_Sincerely,_  
 _William Holmes_

* * *

 

John gritted his teeth. Who was this guy, making assumptions about someone he knew nothing about?

* * *

 

_William,_

_I don't want your help. I don't need anything from you. I will be telling Joanne exactly the same thing._

_John._

* * *

 

Barely three minutes later he had received another response.

* * *

 

**To:** Watson, J  
 **From:** Holmes, W  
 **Date:** April 17th 2013 – 10:11pm  
 **Subject:** RE: Academic Tutor (Joanne Harvey recommendation)

_John,_

_I can only deduce from your email that you are defensive about your current shortfalls in your academic performance. Please be assured that your shortfalls are merely a response to your underwhelming brain capabilities and that you are one of nearly all in the same situation at our university. It is nothing to be ashamed of._

_Please contact me to discuss how much support you require._

_Sincerely,_  
 _William Holmes_

* * *

 

“Prick,” John surmised, hardly believing what he was reading. “What an utter prick.”

* * *

 

_William,_

_Let me spell it out for you in simple terms: fuck off. I do not require ANYTHING from you. I can only imagine that your giant, over-fed brain is too crammed full of how much you adore yourself to comprehend that to even get into this university I had to complete not only an hour-long interview but also three exams, all of which I passed with merit. Take your planet-sized ego, shove it up your arse and leave me alone._

_John._

* * *

 

Five minutes on:

* * *

 

**To:** Watson, J  
 **From:** Holmes, W  
 **Date:** April 17th 2013 – 10:22pm  
 **Subject:** RE: Academic Tutor (Joanne Harvey recommendation)

_John,_

_I see that I have somehow offended you. That was not my intention. Though I of course have a far superior brain to your own, I am in no way insinuating that you are unintelligent and hope that you accept my apology both for offending you and for ignoring your request that I 'fuck off'. Joanne was most complimentary about you in her recommendation and I am assured that you are more than up to the task of improving your academic standings. Please be assured that I am your best chance of doing so._

_Should you wish for me to, as you put it, 'fuck off', please simply refrain from answering this e-mail, however if you wish to perhaps discuss properly the kind of support I can offer you then I ask that you forward on a time in the near future that you are available._

_Once again, my sincerest apologies._

_Sincerely,_  
 _William Holmes_

* * *

 

“Well, we both know I'm not going to reply,” John muttered, leaning back in his chair and staring at the screen, fingers drumming idly on the desk. “Superior brain – Jesus Christ. I'll give you a superior brain...”

He continued to mutter like this for a few minutes, fingers starting to drum faster and faster on the desk as he considered what an utter arsehole this William Holmes was. He re-read the email, laughing without humour and shaking his head several times before he finally stood up and turned away from the laptop. Falling backwards onto the bed, John stared up at the ceiling and felt the last remaining dregs of frustration begin to ebb from his system, an almost physical sensation of it leaving his body tingling through his fingertips until he was once again left with the nothingness.

It had been so nice to feel something.

Within two minutes he was already back at the laptop.

* * *

 

_William,_

_5:30pm tomorrow suits me. Just tell me when and where._

_John._


	2. William Holmes

**Thank you ENDLESSLY to all of those who have followed and, of course, to that one awesome person who has reviewed so far. Genuinely can't thank you enough.**

**Shorter chapter this time, but so much fun to write nonetheless! ENJOY! For every review I get, I'll kiss the laptop screen. Promise. Reviews are what keep me fired up to go, so if you genuinely want to read more... well, I'll still write regardless, but reviews help me write that little bit faster! :D**

** Chapter Two **

There was no response.

John waited; he slept as usual, too long, too deep and then awoke to a grey morning, clouds cast across the sky enough that he considered putting the light on – but that would mean having to get out of bed, and that was a thought he didn't particularly relish. Instead he leaned over and pulled the edge of his laptop towards him, brushing his finger over the mousepad and waiting as the screen lit itself up to reveal an empty inbox. Glancing at the bottom right-hand corner – 10am – he wondered if this William guy had changed his mind, perhaps decided that John's obvious reluctance to embark on any sort of journey to academic improvement was simply a sign not to bother with him, and he couldn't really blame the man for that. If John himself couldn't see much of a point in trying, he couldn't blame the egotistical Personal Academic Tutor for not wanting to try either.

So he slept a little more. He got up at around 1pm, forcing himself to go through the motions and shower, ate a handful of cornflakes from the box he kept in his room for when he really couldn't face going to the kitchen and got dressed – clean clothes today, though not what he would usually wear: a hoodie and a favourite pair of jeans that had been too small for him for years but were now fitting quite comfortably since he'd started to lose weight. He crawled back into bed for a little while longer, staring blearily at the laptop perched next to him on the desk chair, but no email from William ever appeared. Unsurprising. He turned himself away from the laptop, facing the wall as he stared at the soul-damagingly boring magnolia paint and slowly let his eyes close into yet another dull drift of sleep.

_~Bing~_

Opening his eyes, drowsy, John lay still on his bed. What time was it? It was still light outside, but his room had the typical murkiness of late afternoon. He played disinterestedly in his mind with the idea of grabbing his phone and checking the time but then, what was the point? He had nothing to do today. Time was irrelevant.

_~Bing~_

This time it sunk in to his mind, the sound. He slowly shifted his body until he could glance over his shoulder; groaning at the black screen, he forced himself to twist until his arm could reach the mousepad, skating his finger over it until the screen began to light up. There, sitting on his taskbar, was a little orange flashing window, something he'd never seen before. He turned properly, frowning, pulling the office chair closer to the bed and moving his face closer to the screen.

**_Holmes, W – Instant Message_ **

Eyes widening slightly, John moved the mousepoint to the little flashing bar and clicked it, watching apprehensively as the little window appeared before him on the screen.

 **Holmes, W:** Good afternoon, John.  
 **Holmes, W:** Please confirm that you are there and are able to read my messages.

John leaned onto his elbows, still frowning, his fingers moving across the keys.

 **Watson, J:** I'm here, I can see your messages

He waited.

 **Holmes, W:** I had wondered if you had perhaps forgotten our appointment.

John stared incredulously at the screen; what? Was the guy an idiot?

 **Watson, J:** Well I was kind of waiting for a response from you... I thought you would reply to my email with a place to meet so assumed you'd decided not to go ahead with this tutoring thing  
 **Holmes, W:** I apologise, I should have explained that our sessions would take place via computer. I see no need for us to meet in person when most of the course material is so easily accessible on the university's intranet system.  
 **Watson, J:** Doesn't really explain why you didn't bother responding to my email to let me know that you still wanted to do this, though...  
 **Holmes, W:** My intentions to aid you in your academic failures were clear in each e-mail I sent to you, therefore I saw no need to respond. It would have been a perfectly ridiculous waste of my time.

Hardly believing what he was reading, John could not stop the small noise of disbelief that escaped his throat. Was this guy even for real? He found himself not knowing which part of the message to respond to first but, after a quick inward battle, decided to focus on the task at hand rather than attack the man for his tone. That could wait.

 **Watson, J:** I'm sorry, academic failures? I'm still passing the course, if you didn't realise  
 **Holmes, W:** Barely.  
 **Holmes, W:** It saddens me that you consider getting less than the equivalent of a 2:2 on your last four essays as a passable grade.  
 **Watson, J:** Have you even been to university? A third is a pass. I'm sorry it doesn't match up to your obviously sky-high expectations but a third is considered a pass at any university  
 **Holmes, W:** I am well aware of the grading system, thank you. Yes, I have indeed been to university, in fact I am still in attendance at your current place of study, hence why I am your PAT. I had thought that much was obvious.  
 **Holmes, W:** My expectations are only as high as they should be considering your marks before this odd little downfall of yours. You were evidently well on your way to earning the equivalent of a first in your pre-medical year until a month ago, so it grieves me that you consider your current gradings as acceptable. I was under the impression that you were intending to bring your marks back up again, hence our current conversation, however I may have to consider the possibility that I am wrong.  
 **Holmes, W:** It is not a concept I'm altogether familiar with.

"Prick," John muttered disbelievingly. "Yet again, an utter prick." He leaned away from the laptop but kept his eyes focused on the words in front of him, hardly believing what he had just read. Did people like this even exist? Was it possible that William Holmes was actually just a troll and that Joanne had never actually recommended anybody to him?

He decided to play it carefully.

 **Watson, J:** So you know my marks then, do you?  
 **Holmes, W:** Yes.  
 **Watson, J:** Did Joanne pass them on to you? I wasn't aware that was something she could do  
 **Holmes, W:** It's irrelevant how I came to be in possession of them. What I would like to focus on, if you do intend to attempt to work with me and bring your marks up, is what you are struggling with and to come up with an appropriate learning system from which you can benefit from.  
 **Watson, J:** Yeah, no, I'd like to know how you got hold of my marks  
 **Holmes, W:** This is a waste of not only my time but also of your own. I would advise that you resist being stubborn, though I know how you love to be so, and instead focus on how to tackle your academic deficiencies.  
 **Watson, J:** Wait, what? How the hell do you know if I'm stubborn or not? Who the hell are you?  
 **Holmes, W:** William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I apologise, I had thought this topic had been covered. You do like to waste time, don't you?  
 **Watson, J:** You are actually a total arsehole  
 **Watson, J:** You know what I think? You're just some jumped-up twat who wants to have a bit of a laugh, so you thought you'd hack into my emails or something and now you're using whatever you read to piss me about  
 **Watson, J:** I don't have the energy or the patience to deal with it, and quite frankly you should bugger off and try to get a bit more of a life  
 **Watson, J:** If this is how you like to spend your time then you seriously need to consider jumping off a building or something, because that's really sad, and believe me, I know sad

Hands shaking, John forced himself to breathe deeply through his nose, trying to distance himself for a moment; the surge was coming on again, that rage of frustration zipping up and down his arms and through his chest as he practically attacked his keyboard with his fingers. He considered closing the conversation window, considered closing the whole damned laptop down so that he could avoid talking to this poisonous ass -

 **Holmes, W:** Yes, you do know sad, don't you? Mm, it's surprising to me that you have no energy considering the fact that you spend most of your days sleeping, avoiding the monotonous routine of life and all the greys and blacks that seem to accompany every waking moment you find yourself trapped within.  
 **Holmes, W:** Then again, that's all a part of it, isn't it? Lack of energy, lack of motivation... your patience suffers at the hands of it too, if only because you have little to no patience to process your own opinions these days let alone the opinions of a total stranger to you.  
 **Holmes, W:** You tell me to throw myself off a building when in fact it's something that's crossed your mind for yourself, the idea of that final push so that you no longer have to deal with the utter drab and dull of a life you had thought would be so satisfying, so fulfilled. You're so disappointed in yourself, full of guilt for what you think you can no longer achieve and some days you are so very full of those thoughts which you cannot quite comprehend that you allow yourself to think for one, freeing moment that perhaps the answer is to, in fact, just throw yourself off of a building or a bridge and no longer have the capability to think at all.

John's whole body flooded with heat, quickly followed by numbness. His eyes stared, barely seeing as the words just kept coming.

 **Holmes, W:** Perhaps you'd prefer to think me a troll, someone who would go out of their way to intentionally make you miserable. You need that extra little nudge, John, that reason to feel the way that you do. You relish the idea that you have someone to rage at, someone to blame, someone to inspire negative feelings within you because negative feelings are at least better than no feelings at all, correct?  
 **Holmes, W:** I don't doubt your intelligence – the marks that I found by hacking into the staff university portal (an easy feat, I assure you) are proof of just how well you withhold information and the skill you possess to put it across into clear, concise prose. You work hard for the marks you get, yet now you see no reason to work hard whatsoever as your mind is so very proficient at making you feel that any effort would be wasted, that you would fail regardless of how hard you try.  
 **Watson, J:** stop

He could barely type the four letters, hands shaking so hard he had to type them with a single finger.

 **Holmes, W:** I couldn't agree more. Perhaps I can't help you. It's painfully obvious that you're in no position to help yourself academically when you can't even accept what's wrong with you.  
 **Watson, J:** you don't know me. you have no idea... you have no right.  
 **Holmes, W:** I have as much right as anybody to tell you what you already know.  
 **Holmes, W:** Depression is not something to be ashamed of.  
 **Watson, J:** stop it. just stop it.  
 **Holmes, W:** I'm not a troll, John. I am exactly the person you thought I was last night – an arsehole, as you so delicately put it. I'm not going to tiptoe and pretend to be kind or supportive or even remotely interested in who you are as a person; all I have said to you are the clear, cold facts. I offered to help you academically and the offer still stands, though whether you are at a point where you are ready to attempt such a feat is unknown to me.  
 **Holmes, W:** My assumption is that you are not ready.

Slowly, painstakingly careful, John began to finally respond. The frustration had morphed, a veritable rage settling over him and flooding his entire body in heat as the words began to fall onto the screen.

 **Watson, J:** Your assumption?  
 **Watson, J:** You think I give one damn about your assumptions?  
 **Watson, J:** So you hacked into the system and found my marks, essays, whatever else you could get your hands on. Considering you so clearly have no desire to be even remotely appropriate that comes as no surprise, though you can be sure that I'll report you just as soon as I've said all I have to say to you.  
 **Watson, J:** How you think you can know all of these things is beyond me. You may in fact be a tutor, in fact I accept that gladly. That doesn't stop you from being a troll, someone who would rather inflict pain and misery than actually be of any use or decency. How Joanne thought you could help me is completely and utterly beyond me, it truly is – do you really think that your clever little deductions are going to impress me?  
 **Watson, J:** Because either you're just a fucking genius at guessing games or you've hacked into my blog, either of which make you the biggest dick in the history of dicks. APOLOGIES if none of this is what you want to hear.  
 **Watson, J:** Actually, no. I don't apologise. I have enough to be dealing with, which you CLEARLY know already, and apologising to people like you who live to inflict misery on people who already have far more than their fair share to be getting on with is just not that high on my list of things to do.  
 **Watson, J:** Yeah, I'm intelligent. Two months ago I could have finished this year with distinction, finished at the top of my class. Maybe I'm not as clever as you obviously are, but I work damned hard and I earn every single damn mark I get.  
 **Watson, J:** I don't need you to tell me how to feel about this shitpit that is depression. I can feel whatever the hell I want to feel about it and it's absolutely none of your business whether I feel ashamed of it or not. And yes, if you'd like confirmation that you're right YET AGAIN, I am ashamed of it, of myself, of what I cannot do or achieve because of this monstrous black cloud constantly hanging over me.  
 **Watson, J:** I've seen what depression does to people and the lengths people go to escape it.  
 **Watson, J:** And I will NOT be one of those people.  
 **Watson, J:** Jesus Christ, I have no idea how you can even stand to wake up in the mornings.

Barely a second later -

 **Holmes, W:** Though I appreciate you going out of your way to prove me right, it was unnecessary.  
 **Holmes, W:** Shall I assume that you don't wish to go ahead with tutoring?

Letting out a bellow of barely suppressed rage, John slammed the laptop shut and pushed the desk chair away with all of his might, immense satisfaction coursing through him as the old machine fell from its sitting-place and crashed to the floor. He threw himself back onto the bed, body still trembling hard at the pure self-righteous anger flooding his system, eyes barely able to see the blank ceiling above him as the edges hazed over – so it was true what they said about seeing red when you were angry. Right now it was _all_ he could see.

No, he didn't want to lie down, he was too agitated for that. He pushed himself off of the bed, rocketing to the other side of the room as quickly as he could, letting his shoulder bash against the wardrobe as he passed. The pain was satisfying much as the crashing laptop had been, his lips twisting into an odd, ugly grin as the feel of it. He understood instantly why people let themselves fall into self-destructive habits, drug-use and self-harm and all the things that people grasped onto to survive whilst battling the big black dog that was depression. He felt like he was buzzing, felt almost alive for the first time in months and it was _electrifying._ All this emotion – all right, a single and negative emotion, but an emotion nonetheless – was like a drug, infiltrating his system and making him feel like he could do almost anything.

His eyes found his reflection in the mirror.

Just like that, the emotion left.

Just like that, he was exhausted all over again.

Just like that, he was himself again.

Not the old him. The new one. The depressed one.

Slowly – much as he did anything these days – he shuffled back to the bed, adrenaline burned out so quickly that he felt almost as if he was going to pass out from it; he barely processed his body falling onto the unmade mess of a bed, eyes already closed as he curled into his usual ball, fingers reaching up and crawling over his face until it was completely covered, blocking out any light that was left in the sky and letting him retreat back into the darkness of his whirring, wheeling mind.

He passed out within seconds, the faceless words of William Holmes still imprinted on his eyelids as he drifted off.


	3. The Agreement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, okay, I can't seem to stop myself right now. -_- Hope you're all enjoying so far - here's the third chapter! R&R's appreciated!

 

**Chapter Three**

"John! Jesus Christ, John! Where've you been, mate?"

Forcing what he hoped was a believable smile, John stopped in the middle of the path and looked into the face of his best friend, the familiar pressure of desire to avoid all things social weighing like an anchor in his stomach. "Mike, hi – you doing all right?"

Mike Stamford's small, expressive eyes were dancing with evident relief as he reached out and clapped a hand on John's shoulder, shaking his head back and forth. "Well I'm fine, same as always, but... John, you've been like a dead man! Haven't spoken to you in weeks, called about twenty times -"

"Phone's broken," John quickly lied, knowing his excuse to be lame but lacking the motivation to think of something better. "It's knackered, can't get calls or texts."

The man opposite nodded his acceptance, squeezing John's shoulder lightly; the smaller man fought the urge to knock it away. "You should get it fixed or something, it's been bloody weird without you around! Missed one hell of a party last week, Greg threw an absolute  _blinder_!"

"Mmm. Really."

"God, yeah, was brilliant – got some girls number," Mike added casually, clearly elated but determined not to show it, "and got absolutely bladdered. He's doing another one next Friday, you should come – Mary'll probably be there."

Ah, Mary. His crush, at least before the depression took away any form of interest in another living being. He rolled his eyes at himself, realising too late that Mike could see it - he leapt into the fray of conversation as enthusiastically as he could, nodding hard. "Oh, yeah, right, Mary! I do... I do like Mary. Mm. Sounds like a really good idea."

"Yeah?" Mike tilted his head slightly to the side. "You don't have to, I know your workload is pretty tough right now..."

"No, it sounds... great. It sounds really great. Party at Greg's, Friday." John forced another smile. "Fantastic."

Mike grinned his genuine, 'always happy to see you' grin and clapped John once more on the shoulder. "Brilliant, mate, brilliant. Always a better party with you there. I can meet you at yours first, have a few pre-drinks?"

"No!" John's quick response was too quick, too loud. He cleared his throat, feeling his hands start to shake at the effort of it all. "No, I... I'll meet you at the party, got things to do on Friday but yeah, sure, as soon as I'm done... I'll be there. For sure."

"Okay, no problem, we can meet there." Mike's smile faded somewhat, eyes carefully taking in John's pale face. "You don't have to come, y'know. You look exhausted."

"Yeah, well, got a load of work to do and not enough time to do it," John pushed out with a laugh, shoving his hands deep into his jacket pocket and rocking back and forth on his heels; the movement calmed him a little. "You know what it's like, you remember your first year."

Nodding, his friend took a glance around him and then looked back to John. "I remember, it's mental, absolutely mental. If you need a hand with anything...?"

He fought down the instant, impolite rebuttal. Needless to say he wasn't big on being offered help these days. "Appreciate it. I'll err, let you know."

"Right." The two young men stood opposite each other, staring awkwardly until finally Mike took a step away. "I should probably get to my lecture, but if you get your phone fixed just drop me a text about next Friday, yeah?"

"Sure," John agreed readily, nodding and taking a similar-spaced step away from his older friend. "I'll be in touch."

He waited until Mike had waved cheerily – though slightly less enthusiastically than perhaps he would have before John's disappearance – until he let out the breath he held between his lips, hissing into an aggressive-sounding sigh of relief; his shoulders dropped, the realisation of how tense his body had become only sinking in as his muscles groaned at him in complaint. He began to walk the slow path back to his accommodation, already having his blinkers up against the multitude of students passing by.

There was no way he'd make it to the party.

 

 

****\- - - - - - - - -**  X - - - - - - - - -**

_~Bing~_

"No," John mumbled, stirring in his bed amidst the mountain of course material he'd been attempting to read before falling into his usual late afternoon nap, waving his hand towards his (slightly dented) laptop which now (after three days of sitting on the floor) was sitting back on the chair. He kept his eyes closed, uninterested in whoever was bothering him, pulling his arms in tight to his chest.

_~Bing~_

"I said  _no_ ," he moaned quietly, eyes flying open and looking at the typically black screen opposite him; he let himself look at it blearily for a few more moments, wondering if it was the usual weekly influx of emails from Joanne and her team of nagging tutors but not really feeling too fussed either way – the emails were getting more and more frequent, less and less gentle and far more on the side of 'come to seminars or we'll suspend you' than 'let us help you'... it was starting to weigh down on him, yet there was nothing he felt he could do. He'd managed to submit another essay, another below-par piece of work, and he was certain that this time he'd probably managed to flunk it completely. Yet another reason not to look at the emails. He didn't want to know how badly he'd messed this one up.

_~Bing~_

"Fine, FINE." Reluctantly and full of a muted weariness he forced himself to sit up, pulling the laptop off of the chair and leaning his back up against the headboard as he rested the thing in his lap and moved the cursor until his screen powered back into life. What he saw, of course, wasn't exactly what he had been expecting and was possibly even more unwelcome than nagging emails from his tutors.

_**Holmes, W:**  Good evening, John._

_**Holmes, W:**  I assume you're probably sleeping._

_**Holmes, W:**  I also assume that you didn't make it to your seminars today._

"Why are you talking to me?" His voice in the darkness – god, how long had he fallen asleep for this time? - was loud, too loud. He shuffled himself slightly on the bed and waited, seeing from the corner of the conversation window that the man was typing again.

_**Holmes, W:**  I'm still willing to offer my services, should you need them. Joanne e-mailed me again today. She's rather concerned that she hasn't heard from you since your meeting last week._

"None of your business," John mumbled.

_**Holmes, W:**  I understand that you wish to keep your distance from people and, dare I say it, that your depression has perhaps worsened since our last conversation, however I do believe that it is important for you to maintain your studies should you wish to avoid regretting your actions later. Please be aware that I know it is a struggle, but with a well-built support system you can move your life forward to a similar status as before, should that be your desire._

John's fingers found themselves typing before he could stop himself.

_**Watson, J:**  Because it's just that easy, isn't it?_

_**Holmes, W:**  I didn't say that._

Despite himself, John's eyes re-read the message and began to type once more, rephrasing.

_**Watson, J:**  I don't want a support system. I can get through this without anyone's help._

_**Watson, J:**  Though I'll thank you for your concern._

John narrowed his eyes at the screen, cursing his fingers. He didn't want to thank the man for  _anything_. Damn his good upbringing.

_**Holmes, W:**  Don't do that, you'll only regret it. You're probably already regretting it._

_**Watson, J:** And there we are once more, the mind-reader hits the mark dead-centre. You must love being eternally right._

_**Holmes, W:**  Not always._

_**Holmes, W:**  I mean, yes, I am always right of course, but it's not always satisfying. I would much rather you were mentally sound and therefore able to accept my help so that I could avoid Joanna Harvey's constant reminders to offer my aid to you._

Was the man completely incapable of saying the right thing without it being twisted into something thoughtless? Even John in the midst of a depression was better at phrasing things than him, and that was truly saying something.

_**Watson, J:**  You just don't know how to talk to people at all, do you?_

_**Holmes, W:**  People don't contact me for my social skills, they contact me for my knowledge and ways in which I can cultivate theirs._

_**Watson, J:** I'd feel sorry for you if I didn't still want to punch you in the face._

_**Holmes, W:**  I'd rather you did neither, though if I have to pick I'd almost certainly go for the latter. Regardless, we're veering very rapidly off-topic and I would rather use our time efficiently. Do you require my services?_

_**Watson, J:**  I thought I'd made it quite clear from our last delightful conversation that I have absolutely no interest whatsoever in your sevices. I could refresh your memory for you, if you want?_

_**Holmes, W:**  I'm sure it would be most beneficial for us both if you were to act on the indignation I clearly inspire within you, however I would far rather set out a learning schedule for you and arrange bi-weekly meetings with you, on here of course, so that we can get to work on your academic struggle._

_**Watson, J:**  Struggle. I see you've realised that 'downfall' and 'failure' aren't the best words to motivate me._

_**Holmes, W:**  Mock me if it makes you feel better, however the fact that I have indeed altered my way of speaking is surely a sign that I am willing to make an effort to be of assistance._

_**Holmes, W:**  Without inspiring the wish to punch me in the face._

Was he... trying to be funny?

_**Watson, J:**  I don't like you. You're smug, arrogant and clearly have a God complex._

_**Holmes, W:**  The former two are true, though the latter needs some rethinking considering God doesn't exist._

_**Watson, J:**  Can you speak normally for two seconds?! You are a human being, right? Not just a robot programmed to annoy people out of their wits?_

_**Holmes, W:**  It is true that some days I believe I am less human than the rest of you, though I'd imagine it's not in the same insulting way that you're insinuating._

_**Watson, J:**  Jesus Christ._

_**Holmes, W:**  He doesn't exist either._

_**Watson, J:**  Right, okay, you're starting to irritate me now._

_**Holmes, W:**  I'm shocked that it took this long. Shall we arrange a schedule?_

John stared at the words, shaking his head slowly back and forth as he took in the man's pure, ridiculous ignorance.

_**Watson, J:**  Do you genuinely think I'm going to say yes?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Without a doubt._

_**Watson, J:**  You really are frustratingly arrogant, aren't you? What on earth makes you think I'm going to want to accept help from someone I can't stand? I've barely spoken to you and already you're at least cutting it close to the least favourite person I've ever met in my life!_

_**Holmes, W:**  It's slightly irritating when I'm forced to answer questions you've already answered for yourself._

_**Holmes, W:**  The fact that you dislike me is precisely the reason you will agree to having me as your Personal Academic Tutor. Your depression is a vice on your brain, disallowing you any chance to communicate or work to your usual standards. Up until our previous conversation and probably every conversation since, the closest thing to any sort of emotion you've felt is hopelessness, perhaps desperation at points when you've felt cornered, pressured, correct?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Recall how you felt during and perhaps even after our conversation last week. Would you deny that for the first time in at least eight weeks you felt the stirrings of emotion, of anger, frustration, rage? My manner pushed you to the point of abandoning our conversation after I'd asked you a direct question, and considering you seem to restrain yourself from saying exactly what you'd like to say when you'd like to say it out of desire to be polite... well, that leads me to think that whatever sort of feeling I inspire within you is strong enough to motivate you to break away from your depression and react._

_**Holmes, W:**  Momentarily, of course. I wouldn't dream of alluding to your depression as something so easily lifted._

_**Holmes, W:**  Is what I have assumed so far correct?_

Whether he wanted to or not, John had to admit even to himself that he was slightly impressed. How could the man have any idea how he had been reacting? Reluctantly he began to reply.

_**Watson, J:** As much as I don't want to admit it, yes._

_**Holmes, W:**  Did you perhaps get up? Move around? Perhaps damage some property, or yourself? _

_**Holmes, W:** Did you realise what you were feeling only to lose grip of it almost instantaneously and sink back into your depression? Fall into a dreamless sleep not long after?_

This was insane. No one guessed right this many times without there being something more to it.

_**Watson, J:**  Are you spying on me or something?_

_**Holmes, W:**  I'll take that as a yes on all counts. I do hope you didn't hurt yourself too severely._

_**Watson, J:**  What?_

_**Watson, J:** Oh_

_**Watson, J:**  My laptop, not me. It fell on the floor and I enjoyed it._

_**Holmes, W:**  Perfectly natural response when you're feeling angry._

_**Watson, J:**  I know that, no need to patronise me._

_**Holmes, W:**  That wasn't my intention, though it's natural for you to be defensive in your current state._

_**Watson, J:**  Look, if we're going to do this PAT thing you're going to have to stop being a know-it-all bastard. I hate arrogance. And patronising arseholes._

_**Holmes, W:**  I take it that this is your acceptance of our arrangement?_

John stared back at what he had written, re-reading it three times for good measure; yes, it certainly sounded that way, definitely seemed as if he'd subconsciously made his decision... as much as he hated to say it, William had made some frustratingly accurate points. John couldn't fail to recall that blinding moment of clarity that had buzzed through him during the first few moments after he'd let the laptop crash to the ground, nor how clear his mind had felt when he'd bashed his shoulder against the wardrobe (no need to tell William about  _that_ ) or how incredibly motivated he'd felt until he'd glanced into the mirror.

There was definitely the possibility of  _sense_  behind what the guy had said, even if how he knew all of this was completely unknown.

_**Watson, J:**  I don't know. I've never... needed help before. In any sort of way._

_**Watson, J:**  It's embarrassing, I can't deny it._

_**Holmes, W:**  Then you should consider yourself considerably stronger than the rest of our species. It is the mark of a strong man to admit when he needs assistance; the weaker of us fall to addictions and survival strategies that further prolong the damage inflicted._

_**Watson, J:**  That's probably the nicest thing you've said to me so far._

_**Holmes, W:**  I don't say it to be nice, I say it because it is undeniably true. I will always be truthful, whether you want me to be or not._

_**Watson, J:** That sounds ominous._

_**Holmes,** W: You don't strike me as the type of person to be afraid of hearing the truth._

_**Watson, J:**  And you don't strike me as the type of person who cares either way._

_**Holmes, W:**  You're wrong about that. Cowards exist to irritate me._

_**Watson, J:**  Then it pains me to say that your instincts are right... I'm not afraid to hear the truth, no matter what it might be._

_**Holmes, W:**  Good. This may just work out._

He was still irritating. He still was frustrating beyond belief. Still. That was better than the usual bout of nothing.

_**Watson, J:**  What do I need to do first?_

_**Holmes, W:**  I've already put together a learning schedule for you during our conversation; it's easy enough to understand, each session is colour-coded depending on the type of studying I expect you to do._

_**Watson, J:**  Type? There are different types of studying?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Dear Lord._

_**Watson, J:**  Careful, he doesn't exist, remember?_

_**Holmes, W:**  At least I know you can absorb written information easily enough. During some sessions you'll need to simply read texts that I've taken from the intranet and edited (there are so many errors in the course material that I'm surprised we manage to make doctors and scientists out of anyone who studies here, truly); other times I'll provide you with presentations to watch, lectures to listen to, ask you to take notes in various ways._

_**Watson, J:**  Why exactly do I need to do all that?_

_**Holmes, W:**  I need to find out which way you absorb information best, hence the different formats of said information; taking notes in different ways – flow charts, diagrams, bullet points, mind-clouds – will help me ascertain how your mind processes the information once it's there. It's all relevant, I assure you._

_**Watson, J:**  Blimey. All right, then what happens?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Twice a week we'll have meetings on here to discuss your work – which of course means you'll submit your work to me as soon as it is complete – and together we can assess what needs doing and how to move on from there._

_**Holmes, W:**  When you are issued an essay deadline (all of which I am well aware, so please don't think you can avoid doing them) you will put the skills you've been developing to use and submit three separate drafts of your essay to me which I will then comment on and send back to you for your personal evaluation and editing._

_**Watson, J:**  Do you really have time to be doing all of this? Didn't you say you're studying at the university too?_

_**Holmes, W:**  I will set aside time to assist you._

_**Watson, J:**  What are you studying?_

_**Holmes, W:**  A variety of subjects. It should be of no concern to you._

_**Watson, J:**  Right, well, that told me._

_**Holmes, W:**  I'm sending over your learning schedule now._

_**Watson, J:**  Ok. Are you going to be keeping Joanne in the loop about all of this?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Only if I think it absolutely necessary. Just as she only divulged certain information about you to me, I will keep most of what we cover between us – it will only be if there is no obvious improvement over a certain space of time that I will consider allowing her to become more involved._

_**Watson, J:**  Right, ok. Just wondered. Either way is fine._

_**Holmes, W:**  Did you receive your schedule?_

_**Watson, J:**  Uh... yes, it's in my inbox now._

_**Holmes, W:**  Good. Look it over tomorrow morning. There shouldn't be anything on there that you can't understand._

_**Watson, J:**  Will do._

_**Holmes, W:**  What times do you usually sleep during the week?_

_**Watson, J:**  Sorry, what?_

_**Holmes, W:**  So that we can arrange our bi-weekly appointments._

_**Watson, J:**  Right, yeah, of course. Uh, it's not really set in stone._

_**Holmes, W:**  The reason I ask is that it is absolutely imperative that you stick to our schedule. Should you miss more than two appointments I will be forced to step down as your PAT. I have no patience for time-wasters._

_**Watson, J:**  You and me both. Well, how about Tuesday's and Friday's? Late afternoon?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Are you certain that won't interrupt your afternoon sleep?_

_**Watson, J:**  How you know that I don't know. I don't think I want to know. Yes, I'll be sure to keep an alarm set so that I don't miss them._

_**Holmes, W:**  So, 5:30pm on Tuesday's and Friday's? Does that work for you?_

_**Watson, J:**  I've got nothing else to do._

_**Holmes, W:**  Good. I'll leave you to your sleep, then, unless you have any questions?_

_**Watson, J:**  How do you know my sleeping patterns?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Lucky guess._

_**Watson, J:**  I have a feeling that none of your deductions are lucky guesses, to be honest..._

_**Holmes, W:**  Anything else?_

_**Watson, J:**  No, not that I can think of._

_**Holmes, W:**  Until Tuesday, then. Be sure to stick to the schedule. I'll e-mail you the necessary course content at 6am each morning._

_**Watson, J:**  Ok._

_**Watson, J:**  Thanks._

_**Holmes, W:**  Goodnight, John._

_Holmes, W is offline_.

For a while after William had left, sitting in the darkness with only the light of the laptop keeping him company, John found himself staring at the computer screen and reading the words back to himself until they no longer made sense.

 _Goodnight, John_.

He couldn't remember the last time someone had been around late enough to say that to him.


	4. Everyone But You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am buzzing ~so hard~ after writing this chapter. I don't think I even care anymore if people review, I am having TOO MUCH FUN! :P (Okay, but I still love reviews. I love them. I need them. I love you...no, that's creepy.)
> 
> Also, I write slow fics. I do. I update fast, sure, but I'm not the kind of person to write a fanfic JUST for slashy smut/fluff etc. The build up is the best bit in my opinion, and I know that a slow-moving fic can put people off but honestly, I do believe it's worth it. Don't give up. Keep reading. More importantly... enjoy. :)
> 
> ONWARDS!

**Chapter Four**

The first day of attempting William's learning schedule was... well,  _interesting_  to put it mildly. John had stared at the colour-coded spreadsheet of intensity for at least five minutes, certain that there must have been some sort of mistake – there was at least five hours work included on the first day alone, including reading course material that John had never even set eyes on before which was covered in notes that ranged from insanely detailed to snarky and sarcastic.

What was most odd was that, with the inclusion of William's notes, John actually found himself drawn into what he was reading. Instead of finding himself faced with the usual drone of facts and statistics, he had the added amusement of a running commentary along with some very clever and unexpected analysis that he never in a million years would have considered himself. Rather than lying on his bed and finding himself waking up with a sheet of paper stuck to his lips as he had done the last time he had attempted to read anything course-relevant, he was sitting up with a notebook at his side, bullet-points being jotted down every time he found himself intrigued by something new. Every now and then he would find himself making his own comments in response to William's notes, though whether he would include those on his typed-up notes he wasn't sure. William, despite the odd humour John was finding between the lines of the more sarcastic commentary, seemed the type of person to take learning very seriously and John assumed that he wouldn't find it altogether amusing to see the things that John was responding with.

By the time the first day was done – notes typed up with a few of the less jokey of his own opinions and responses left in – he was completely wiped out; there had been a few moments whilst compiling his notes that he had wanted to quickly fit in a nap, moments where his mind had drifted off and he'd found himself staring blankly at the door and wondering why he was even bothering when he was still likely to fail the course after the extreme damage he'd already done to his grades. It was undeniable, however, that once he'd sent off the notes to William with a single, impersonal line of text ( _please find attached a copy of notes taken_ ) he actually felt as if he'd achieved something, a feeling he hadn't experienced in a good long while. Though he couldn't stop himself from collapsing onto his bed afterwards and falling into his usual fitful, dreamless sleep, he knew that in the very least he may not feel quite so despondent when he awoke.

When he did awaken it was to a sound he was slowly becoming accustomed to, whether he liked it or not.

_~Bing~_

Rather than battling his usual reluctance, John reached for the chair and wheeled it towards him straight away.

* * *

**To:**   _ **Watson, J**_

**From: _Holmes, W_**

**Date:** _April 21st 2013 – 9:10pm_

**Subject:** _RE: Study Pack 1 notes_

**ATTACHED _: studpack1notesforwilliam(1).doc_**

_John,_

_Please find attached a copy of your notes with additional comments from myself (these have been written in red to ensure clarity)._

_Sincerely,_

_William Holmes_

_PS: Your own insights in response to mine were interesting. I have responded to these too._

* * *

The tiniest of smiles twitching on John's lips, he double-clicked on the attachment and found himself looking at what no longer seemed to be his own notes but rather a huge mash of red amidst lines of his own black dotted here and there; he stared at the screen incredulously, hardly knowing whether to laugh or swear.

Despite still doing the latter, he began to read. Unsurprisingly, William had once again managed to turn what was an uninteresting mass of writing into something vaguely (all right, more than vaguely) entertaining. Over half of the added notes were genuinely helpful, full of tweaks to his own comments which not only managed to explain his points in a more concise manner but explained how to write his thoughts down better in note-form in order for his brain to then regurgitate the information successfully into an essay; what really surprised John, however, were the rest of William's comments. Somehow bouncing off of John's own gentle attempts at humour (most of which were originally responses to William's snarkier edits on the course material), the man had created what John could only describe as mild banter, sometimes even being somewhat complimentary and congratulatory in their tone.

He set to work on a response as soon as he had finished.

* * *

_William,_

_Thanks for the advice, it's actually very helpful. I have to ask though – were my notes actually any good? Because you essentially turned my eight pages of notes into eighteen..._

_John._

* * *

Not thirty seconds later:

_~Bing~_

_**Holmes, W:**  I'm glad that you found the notes useful. Your notes weren't terrible, though you're still evidently having trouble focusing properly._

_**Holmes, W:**  That's not a criticism, by the way. I was expecting far worse._

Rolling his eyes, John quickly typed out a reply.

_**Watson, J:**  For once I'm going to ignore my instincts and instead just accept that you genuinely meant 'not terrible' and 'expecting far worse' in a nice way..._

_**Holmes, W:**  Technically I didn't mean it in a nice way, but equally I didn't mean it in an insulting way. It's simply the truth._

_**Holmes, W:**  Are your instincts really to assume I meant it in a derogatory way?_

John leaned back for a moment, actually considering this. Had his forethought really been to take it as an insult? He ran his foggy mind back, trying to pinpoint what he had actually felt but found himself unable to decipher any emotion or reaction.

_**Watson, J:**  I don't really know what my instincts were. I think I just automatically expect you to say something... inappropriate._

_**Holmes, W:**  I'm not sure about inappropriate._

_**Holmes, W:**  But, I did say yesterday that I would always be truthful, and I suppose that many people would take some of the things I say to be intentionally thoughtless or cruel._

_**Holmes, W:** I hope that perhaps one day you'll cease being one of those people. Were it not for the natural defensiveness which is part and parcel of your depression, I expect that you would be far more accepting of the way in which I impart my thoughts and opinions. You strike me as the honest type yourself._

How did he always know...?

_**Watson, J:**  I think you're probably right._

_**Watson, J:**  I can't say that I'm quite as... blunt as you can be at times_

_**Watson, J:**  But I'm definitely not the type to beat around the bush._

_**Holmes, W:**  Evidently. Your 'fuck off' is still very clear in my mind._

_**Watson, J:**  Would you believe me if I told you that I'd just had a bad day?_

_**Holmes, W:**  I'd believe you if only because I'm relatively sure that every day is a bad day for you at this moment in time._

John shifted uncomfortably in his position on the bed. Maybe it was the dark of the room, the feeling that he'd spent hours with this stranger today merely from reading comments on course material or simply because the man was so spot-on with every assumption he made... he wasn't sure. Whatever it was, though, had made what William had ascertained just a little too... close.

His silence was quickly analysed.

_**Holmes, W:**  I've made you uncomfortable. I apologise._

_**Holmes, W:**  Perhaps I should be more careful with what I say to you. Just because it may be true doesn't necessarily mean I have to voice my thoughts aloud – or type them and press 'send', as the case is here._

_**Holmes, W:**  I understand that my... 'blunt' approach may not be comfortable to hear in your current situation._

William's awkward attempt at empathy was both surprising and something distinctly unfamiliar that John couldn't quite define; in his current state of mental being he wasn't sure he would be able to regardless of how much thought he gave to it, so he let it slide and instead began to type slowly back, determined to phrase his thoughts correctly.

_**Watson, J:**  I think I would rather that you're honest with me instead of holding back out of fear of hurting my feelings. I'm not an overly sensitive person, even in my current 'situation', and I think that it's only fair that if you have to be helping me out the way you've been told to that you at least should be entitled to be yourself._

_**Watson, J:**  Yes, you did make me uncomfortable, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't say those sorts of things. I'm not going to collapse just because you said something painfully accurate._

_**Holmes, W:**  Your silence from before leads me to think that perhaps there was more than one reason you felt discomfort at my words._

_**Holmes, W:**  Though you don't have to tell me either way._

_**Holmes, W:**  It would also be prudent for you to be aware that I am not helping you merely because I was asked._

John found himself re-reading the words back to himself, head battling with which to respond to first; glancing around the room in an attempt to gather his thoughts together, he decided he should probably sit up properly with the laptop rather than run the risk of falling asleep. As he moved to rest his back against the pillow he quickly propped up against the wall, pulling the warm laptop into his lap and shifting until he was comfortable, he remained oblivious to the fact that for the first time in two months he was choosing not to sleep in order to continue a conversation with someone, as well as actively trying to think of words to say because he  _wanted_  to say them rather than because he had to fill an awkward silence.

He remained ignorant of this as he rubbed his slightly bleary eyes and began his response.

_**Watson, J:**  Sorry about that, was sitting up so I wouldn't fall asleep._

_**Watson, J:**  You're right about there being other reasons, though I don't know how to put them into words without them sounding... odd, I don't know._

_**Holmes, W:**  Do you need to sleep?_

_**Watson, J:**  No, I'm fine_

_**Holmes, W:**  I know that you would usually be sleeping at this point in the evening, so please don't hold off on my account._

_**Watson, J:**  I really am fine, thanks. And I really would still love to know how you know my sleeping patterns..._

_**Holmes, W:**  Are you going to try and explain your reasons for your earlier discomfort to me? Or would you prefer to move on to another topic?_

A small jolt of surprise went through John: there were other topics up for discussion? He bypassed this for now, however, trying to keep on track.

_**Watson, J:**  I can try, but it's going to sound weird, ok? I'm not very good at this sort of thing_

_**Holmes, W:**  I'm sure I don't need to tell you that I'm not well-versed in the art of communication either. I shall try and keep an objective mind._

_**Watson, J:**  Fair point._

_**Watson, J:**  It's just that today... okay, let's put it into perspective. In the last two months, I can probably count on one hand, maybe two at a stretch, the number of prolonged conversations I've had with people._

_**Watson, J:**  The course content you asked me to read, you'd written so much on there and reading it all was like reading in your voice_

_**Watson, J:**  And I know, I haven't heard your voice, so that sounds utterly ridiculous. But it's like when you read anything that someone else has written, you read it as if they're saying it, right?_

_**Watson, J:**  So essentially I've spent at least five hours today constantly reading and taking notes on something you've written. If you take into account the lack of social contact I've had recently and so consider my reading something you've taken the care to write in detail on as having social contact..._

_**Watson, J:**  God, this sounds insane_

_**Watson, J:**  Yes, I know, God doesn't exist_

_**Watson, J:**  Damn, I've lost my train of thought. Where was I?_

_**Watson, J:**  Right_

_**Watson, J:**  I'll just have to say it, just try not to judge how it sounds_

_**Watson, J:**  It feels almost as if I've spent half of my day with you._

_**Watson, J:**  And because of that, when you mentioned about how every day feels like a bad day to me, it felt almost as if it was someone I actually know saying it to me._

_**Watson, J:**  Which is ridiculous, I barely know you, I don't know you at all, but there you are. It felt like having someone you know telling you something you barely let yourself think about, and although from a stranger it would simply be thoughtless and inappropriate, instead it felt as it would coming from someone who knows me, so... it felt... intimate._

_**Watson, J:**  And I'm not exactly good with intimacy even when I'm not depressed._

_**Watson, J:**  I really want to delete all of that and take it back_

_**Watson, J:** Though you can't physically do both, so I suppose I'd just like to take it back, because quite honestly I'm re-reading that back to myself and thinking of how completely ridiculous it sounds._

_**Watson, J:**  So, there it is, because I can't take it back. I just hope you kept your observant mind as open as possible._

_**Watson, J:**  Bollocks, I sound like a total twat, don't I?_

He was trembling, much the same as he had been just a few days before whilst talking to the same man; his hands were shaking as he pulled them away from the keyboard and laced his fingers together, forcing them to stay steady, though this did nothing to alleviate the odd shaky sensation in his abdomen and the little quivers running up and down his legs. This time, however, frustration wasn't the cause. He recognised the unwelcome emotion as vulnerability, or perhaps it was closer to simply the physical reaction than the actual emotion – either way, he knew from the way his mind now buzzed and his limbs shivered that it had most likely be the sheer effort of revealing something like that to someone after months of keeping things so close to his chest, heavily protected. It wasn't as if it was something deeply personal, in fact it was almost laughable that this was his reaction, such a severe one as it was...

_**Holmes, W:**  What was the other reason?_

John stared blankly at the screen, gripping his hands tighter against his stomach. Wasn't he going to respond to what he had just said? At all?

_**Holmes, W:**  If you want to tell me._

Shaking his head slightly, John separated his hands and held them, still trembling, over the keyboard. What could it hurt? He already sounded like a rambling idiot.

_**Watson, J:**  The dark. Things always seem more intense in the dark. Or that's how I've always felt anyway, especially recently._

Well, that was that. He'd truly hammered the nail in his sanity coffin with that one. He waited, huddled in his too-large hoodie, for a response.

_**Holmes, W:**  Thank you for telling me._

_**Watson, J:**  I don't know why I did, but I suppose you're honest with me so I should repay the favour whenever possible._

_**Watson, J:**  Though I'm surprised you're thanking me when essentially I just rambled on like a mad man._

_**Holmes, W:**  After such a prolonged amount of time without social contact it's only natural that opening up would inspire a long-winded approach to explaining yourself._

_**Holmes, W:**  I found it all rather informative, actually._

_**Watson, J:**  Informative? In what way?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Nothing that you need to worry about._

_**Watson, J:**  Well, I am slightly concerned in case you've read something wrong in what I've said..._

_**Holmes, W:**  I haven't._

_**Watson, J:**  How can you be so sure?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Have I ever been wrong before?_

_**Watson, J:**  ...all right, fair point._

_**Holmes, W:**  Wasn't there something else you wanted to ask me about?_

John's mind went temporarily blank; he scrolled back through the conversation, muttering aloud to himself.

"No... mm... god, did I really say that?... oh right, yeah, there we go. Blimey, he's a bloody mind-reader..."

_**Watson, J:**  First of all, do you have cameras planted in my room?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Certainly not. I'd never attack your privacy in such a tasteless way._

_**Watson, J:**  I'm going to pretend that you aren't insinuating that you'd attack my privacy in a less tasteful way..._

_**Holmes, W:**  If you'd prefer._

_**Watson, J:**  Please tell me you haven't hacked into my computer, because if you can hack into the university staff portal then god knows how quickly you could get into mine..._

_**Holmes, W:**  Wasn't there something you wanted to ask me, John? It is getting rather late._

John glanced at the clock – hell, he wasn't wrong! He felt the exhaustion settle onto him like a vice at the simple acknowledgement of the time, so hard and fast and familiar that he had to fight to keep his concentration on the screen.

_**Watson, J:**  Right, yeah, sorry._

_**Watson, J:**  You said earlier that you weren't helping me just because you were asked._

_**Holmes, W:**  I did say that, yes._

_**Watson, J:**  What do you mean by that?_

_**Holmes, W:**  I think it's fairly self-explanatory._

_**Watson, J:**  Humour me, my mind isn't exactly up to snuff right now_

_**Holmes, W:**  If I must._

_**Holmes, W:**  When I am asked if I can take a student on and aid them in their academic studies, I am within my rights to refuse a student should I choose to. Sometimes I refuse them straight away, other times I'll send them the same e-mail I sent you last week and decide after receiving their response._

_**Holmes, W:**  Evidently, I chose not to refuse you._

_**Holmes, W:**  Hence why I said that I wasn't helping you just because I was asked._

_**Watson, J:**  ...right..._

_**Watson, J:**  So why did you accept me?_

_**Watson, J:**  I mean, seriously, I was a total GIT to you_

_**Holmes, W:**  That's one way of putting it._

_**Watson, J:**  So why?_

_**Holmes, W:**  It's late. You should probably get some sleep, you're practically falling asleep over your laptop as it is._

Rubbing his sore eyes hard with his fingers, John cleared his throat, determined to stay awake. This time he didn't even bother questioning how William could possibly know how his body was slowly curling further and further towards the laptop.

_**Watson, J:**  Aren't you going to answer my question?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Not today._

_**Watson, J:**  Why?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Perhaps another night._

_**Watson, J:**  Oh, come on. I'm awake!_

_**Holmes, W:**  Barely._

John leaned back against the pillow, knowing himself to be defeated. There probably wasn't a man or woman on this earth who could force someone like William Holmes to do something he didn't want to do – he didn't need a degree to work that one out.

_**Watson, J:**  All right. I'll sleep. Got to be up bright and early to make sure I get your next study pack after all!_

_**Holmes, W:**  Do you have highlighters? You'll need them for tomorrow's notes._

_**Watson, J:**  Yeah, I've got four or five rolling around my room somewhere._

_**Holmes, W:**  Good._

As John sat staring sleepily at the screen, ready to disappear, he suddenly had a question pop into his mind, one he couldn't believe he hadn't actually thought to ask yet.

_**Watson, J:**  Wait, are you still there?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Yes._

_**Watson, J:**  Can I ask you one more question?_

_**Holmes, W:**  You can, though I can't promise that I'll answer._

_**Watson, J:**  It's nothing obscenely personal or anything, it's just that I only just thought to ask... how old are you?_

There was a noticeable gap in time before William started typing back.

_**Holmes, W:**  Some would consider that a personal question._

_**Watson, J:**  Would it help if I told you that I'm 23?_

_**Holmes, W:**  It makes no difference whatsoever._

_**Holmes, W:**  Though now you've awakened my curiosity... how old do you think I am?_

_**Watson, J:**  Not sure you want me to answer that!_

_**Holmes, W:**  Now you absolutely must tell me._

_**Holmes, W:**  To say that and not tell me is just cruel, John._

_**Watson, J:**  Well, if I had to guess... I'd say you're about thirty-five...?_

_**Watson, J:**  Am I close?_

Yet another noticeable gap of time.

_**Holmes, W:**  Not particularly close, no._

_**Watson, J:**  Oh, what?! Older?! Not that that's a bad thing, I suppose you do talk like someone in their forties..._

_**Holmes, W:**  Not older._

_**Holmes, W:**  And I talk like anyone who knows how to correctly distribute the English language, though if that marks me as someone in their forties I suppose that's just a burden I'll have to bear._

_**Watson, J:**  Oh, so you're closer to my age?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Yes, give or take a few years._

_**Watson, J:**  Wow._

_**Holmes, W:**  Is your curiosity now quenched? Is your mind clear enough of questions that you can go to sleep?_

John found himself with a sleepy, so-tiny-it-almost-isn't-there grin curving the corners of his mouth up slightly, nodding despite knowing William could not see. Twenty-six, eh? He seriously hadn't seen THAT coming.

_**Watson, J:**  Yeah, I'm pretty tired._

_**Watson, J:**  Thanks for tonight – for the notes._

_**Watson, J:**  And the chat._

He waited, barely able to keep his eyes open as he watched the little ' _Holmes, W is typing...'_  icon flashing, rocking from side to side slightly in his determination to stay awake. After about a minute of watching the icon, it finally stopped, before:

_**Holmes, W:**  Goodnight, John._

_Holmes, W is offline._

Not for the first time that evening John found himself staring at the screen in sleepy confusion, even leaning forward to look at the words from a closer perspective. What had William been typing for a full minute before? Surely it hadn't taken him that long to write  _goodnight_?

He simply couldn't think about it, not now: he was literally on the verge of sleep, and if he fell asleep as he was now it was almost a certainty that his laptop would end up on the floor again, only this time it would undoubtedly wake him up with a jump and put him in a terrible mood. Slowly he plopped the laptop back onto the desk chair, not bothering to change out of his hoodie and jeans as he set the pillow back flat on his bed and kicked the covers out from underneath him until he could wrap them around himself, yawning heavily as he did so. His hazy, sleep-desperate eyes found the laptop screen one last time before he shut them and found his way instantly into a not-so-dreamless sleep, re-reading the last line to himself before his mind gave out and his body relaxed.

For the first time in a while, he actually had a dream; it wasn't very clear, nor did it make much sense – it was a courtroom, John sitting off to one side as person after person filed in with papers clutched in their hands, walking up to where the Judge sat with a blurred face and no discernible details. Each person would hand their papers to the man, waiting as he looked them over before, every time, he would look down at them with a smirk and give a resounding, echoing: "No!"

It was simply this, over and over; it eventually became dull, enough so that dream-John stood up from his place in the gallery and joined the line of people, no papers in his hands as he shuffled along bit by bit until finally he was standing facing the Judge, nothing to give him, just a frank and open stare as he took in the blurred non-details of the man's face.

The man leaned over.

" _John."_

This time when John awoke, still half-asleep and very close to being unconscious once more, he pulled his laptop towards him without needing the motivation of the usual 'bing' – this time he would talk first, speak the question that was flitting about at the edge of his barely-conscious mind still hazy from his dream.

He was asleep again barely seconds after hitting 'Send'.

**\------X------**

_Carefully placing the tiny metal spatula down on the grooved wooden table and ensuring to move the candle away from the edge (lest it spill wax onto the rug beneath) he turned and stood in one fluid motion, quietly ghosting his way towards the brightly-lit laptop resting on the arm of the sofa. With a swift brush of a long, white finger upon the keyboard, the perpetrator of the noise which had so rudely interrupted him mid-experiment flickered up into life on the screen._

_Ice-blue eyes skated across the words, narrowing ever so slightly as his quick-fire mind ran through possible meanings and answers._

_Gently, William Sherlock Scott Holmes – Sherlock to family and very few others – rested his slender wrists on the edge of the brushed-aluminium keyboard, eyes casting themselves over the words one more time._

**Watson, J:**  How many people have you said no to?

" _Regarding the tutoring," Sherlock murmured in his deep baritone, the only sound to fill the whorl of his ears. He leaned back for a moment, tilting his head until he was staring at the blank ceiling above him. "So curious, so soon."_

_He began typing before he had even brought his gaze back to the screen._

_Standing and gently pressing 'Send' in one movement, he turned away from the laptop without looking back and returned to his candle, kneeling back on the edge of the rug and plucking the spatula back between his fingers until it felt as if it had never been removed._

**\------X------**

_~Bing~_

John rolled over, groaning, barely conscious once again as he leaned towards his laptop and dragged the chair clumsily closer. His eyes squinted in the darkness as they adjusted to the light of the screen, seeing that there were words but hardly able to comprehend them.

But comprehension eventually came. Slowly he remembered. The dream. The question.

And now, the answer.

_**Holmes, W:**  Everyone but you._


	5. You've Had Your Turn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one before bed! XD Keep reviewing, they're like gold dust to me! <3

**Chapter Five**

_**Holmes, W:**  Good afternoon, John._

Still bleary-eyed from his sleep, not to mention still in a state of shell-shock from the obscenely loud attack on his ears that was his alarm tone, John pulled his laptop from the chair and settled it on his lap, shaking his head violently back and forth in an attempt to wake himself from his post-nap stupor.

_**Watson, J:**  Hi._

He leaned over to his bedside cabinet, pulling the half-empty bottle of water from its resting place and quickly taking a swig, watching the 'typing' icon from the corner of his eye. It felt like much later than 5:30 in the afternoon.

_**Holmes, W:**  How are you finding your learning schedule so far?_

_**Watson, J:**  Interesting. Difficult. Tiring._

_**Holmes, W:**  Would you like to expand on that?_

_**Watson, J:**  I guess I'm not supposed to say 'no', right?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Correct._

_**Watson, J:**  All right_

_**Watson, J:**  I found it difficult to work up the motivation to download the materials you sent me today/ It took a great deal of determination just to open up the attachment, let alone read it._

_**Watson, J:**  To be honest I got kind of pissed off today when your e-mail woke me up._

_**Holmes, W:**  I see._

_**Watson, J:**  But I'm guessing you want to know how I feel about the work, not the other stuff._

_**Holmes, W:**  If you feel like 'the other stuff' is relevant to your learning I would prefer that you include this in your evaluation of your experience so far._

_**Holmes, W:**  Only if you're comfortable doing so._

_**Watson, J:**  Ok_

_**Watson, J:**  I pretty much cursed your name up until the moment I actually started reading_

_**Watson, J:**  I spent much of the time leading up to it procrastinating by blaming you for my inevitable failure_

_**Watson, J:**  And at my worst moments, I hated you for being the reason I have to keep trying_

_**Watson, J:** Which I should probably feel bad about._

_**Holmes, W:**  Hate is quite a strong word._

_**Watson, J:**  Ok... irrepressible frustration._

_**Holmes, W:**  Which, as we discussed, is the whole reason you agreed to do this in the first place. That frustration is what allows you to momentarily escape the depression, at least in a shallow sort of way._

_**Watson, J:**  Yeah, but I didn't feel like that yesterday..._

_**Watson, J:**  Yesterday I felt willing_

_**Watson, J:**  Or as willing as I'm able to feel at the moment_

_**Holmes, W:**  You can't expect your reactive emotions to change so suddenly overnight. Yesterday was a new start for you, or at least that's what your brain portrayed it to be. Yesterday essentially gave you a small rush of adrenaline at the thought that this could be the start of recovery, of renewed success._

_**Holmes, W:**  Today you woke up feeling exactly as you've felt every day for the last two months._

_**Holmes, W:**  To imagine that every day you'll wake up feeling ready and raring to go simply because I'm sending you course material to look over is, forgive me, foolish._

_**Watson, J:**  So, I'm a fool. I suppose I must be_

_**Holmes, W:**  What do you mean?_

_**Watson, J:**  Trying to turn all of this around. It's utterly pointless, which makes me a fool for even attempting it_

The haze around his brain shuddered slightly in apparent agreement. John stared blankly at the screen.

_**Holmes, W:**  The fact that you even took that first step in accepting me as your PAT is a great victory, John. I implore you not to forget that._

_**Watson, J:**  You sound like a counsellor_

_**Watson, J:**  I don't want a counsellor._

_**Holmes, W:**  I'm not attempting to be._

_**Holmes, W:**  I apologise. Perhaps we should limit our conversations so that they are purely academic if we're to avoid complications._

An odd pang shot through John's stomach, momentarily breaking through the cloying fog. His fingers began typing before he could even wrap his head around the idea that he should stop.

_**Watson, J:**  I don't want that_

A momentary pause.

_**Watson, J:**  I'm sorry, I know you'd prefer it that way. Let's do that, ok, that's fine_

John leaned away from the screen and rested his head against the wall, eyes half-closed but focused on the conversation window as he waited for William's response. He ignored the sensation of butterflies that had started tingling in his stomach, ignoring even harder the knowledge of why the sensation was even there in the first place – it was difficult, though. Especially as William wasn't typing.

_**Watson, J:**  I should go._

Instantly William began typing.

_**Holmes, W:**  No._

The sensation in his stomach strengthened, hands tightening their grip on his laptop slightly.

_**Holmes, W:**  I'm not altogether sure what I'm supposed to say to you now._

John laughed his familiar humourless laugh, rolling his eyes to the man who could not see them.

_**Watson, J:**  No change from usual, then._

_**Watson, J:**  Just forget it, William. I shouldn't have said all the things I have so far anyway. It's not like you know me enough to care and it's not as if I know you... at all._

_**Watson, J:**  Christ, you know more about me in less than week than I would probably learn about you in an entire lifetime_

_**Watson, J:**  I'm tired._

_**Watson, J:**  This tutoring thing isn't working out, clearly neither of us can deal with my stupid, fucked-up head_

_**Watson, J:**  I'm going to go and sleep._

_**Watson, J:**  Sorry for wasting your time._

He didn't want to see William's response; the fog was already so heavy it was suffocating, his own sense of failure and worthlessness so cloying that he barely had the vision to shove the laptop onto the mattress beside him before he slid his body down into the mass of blankets and covers, his nest, his safe-space. He lay flat, eyes open so wide they began to sting, dust particles and air settling against the shining surface without a care in the world; he ignored the discomfort, letting them water, blinking away the moisture and staring expressionless at the ceiling above his head as the familiar blanket of numbness embrace him tenderly and settle against his chest.

Back to normality.

* * *

_~RIIIIIING~_

The noise woke him up like a gunshot.

Heart thumping wildly John sat bolt upright, almost knocking the laptop from the edge of his bed; he reached out with a hand and slapped it down on the keyboard to stop it from falling, other hand grasping the material over his chest as he gulped in deep breaths to calm himself down. The room was completely dark, laptop the only source of light. His phone was dead, he knew it was, so that couldn't have been the source of the godforsaken noise.

"What the fuck...?" He pulled the laptop properly back onto the bed, manoeuvring carefully until his foot hesitantly found the floor. He pushed himself into a stiff standing position, reaching out with his hands as he began to shuffle forward towards the light switch; he cursed quietly as he whacked his thumb on the wardrobe, bringing it to his chest as he continued moving forward. Finally he made it, hand reaching out and brushing the wall. "Where's the bloody -"

"You really shouldn't swear quite so much, it makes you sound far less intelligent than you actually are."

A wave of something impossibly warm yet immobilising surged through his body, freezing him in his place by the switch.

The deep voice practically vibrated its way across the air to him.

"I'm assuming from your silence that you weren't expecting me."

John pushed his throbbing thumb harder into his chest, eyes failing to adjust to the dark. "What the  _hell_?"

"I'm also assuming you're not altogether pleased, either."

"Where the hell  _are_  you?" John spluttered, his body tensed so tight it was beginning to ache.

The voice's low tones sounded amused, slightly condescending. "In my living room, John. Where did you think I was? Hiding under your bed?"

John's silence spoke volumes.

"Perhaps the swearing is a sign you're not as intelligent as I thought," the voice said, still condescending, mildly teasing, the phrasing gradually making itself known as very, very familiar. "And perhaps you should consider putting a lamp beside your bed to avoid any future confusion. Tell me, do you often have men appearing without warning in your bedroom? Am I one of a number?"

"What are you talking about?" John slowly began to force his muscles to relax so that he could move, walking towards the source of the deep baritone, cautious, curious. He stopped by his bed, waiting.

"It would certainly explain why your first instinct was to assume that I had somehow snuck into your room and was hiding in wait for you, rather than reaching the more likely conclusion that I had called you through the instant messaging service and you had accidentally answered in your post-sleep stupor."

Instantly John grabbed the laptop, pulling it up to his face and staring at the screen – sure enough the conversation window was up, a microphone icon flashing in the top right-hand corner.

"How did I..." The laptop almost falling to the ground, John's hand coming down heavily on the keyboard. "Oh. I did do that."

"Yes."

Slowly he sat on the edge of his bed, resting the laptop on his knees. His eyes travelled over the conversation screen, lingering momentarily on the name.

_**Holmes, W.** _

"Have you recovered from your shock?"

God, his voice was deep. Deeper than John's own voice, anyway. It had a certain upper-class air to it, every syllable perfectly enunciated, every consonant carefully pronounced. He sounded as if he were older than he was, though in another way he seemed completely ageless. It was odd, familiar, overwhelming and calming all at once, such a wide array of feelings that John momentarily found himself unable to respond, simply staring at William's name.

"John?"

"William," he managed to push out, voice cracking awkwardly from the tightness in his throat.

"Yes, that's right. Have you only just realised?"

"I -"

"I really may have to rethink this whole tutoring business." The amusement was back, less condescension. "Your mind is far slower than I know what to do with."

John shook his head, mind suddenly reclaiming the memories of their previous conversation. It was difficult to focus, his mind so obtrusively wrapped around the velvety tones currently filling his room. "What are you... why have you called me, William?"

A brief pause. "Would you prefer to go back to sleep?"

"No -" He stopped, inwardly cursing his instinctual response. He had already made this decision earlier. "Yes. Yes. I made it... perfectly clear earlier how I felt."

A slight humming noise, the depth of sound low and derisive. "Mmm. You certainly did."

"So this call -"

"You didn't give me a chance to respond to you," the voice cut across, stern, direct, "and that was rather rude of you. When we're having a discussion I would prefer that you give me at least a minute's notice before you simply drop out of a conversation."

John's jaw tightened. "William -"

"If you'll let me speak, John." William's voice lowered slightly, the words almost menacing in the obsidian darkness of John's bedroom. "You've had your turn."


	6. Silver Lining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS ONE WAS SO MUCH FUN TO WRITE, I CAN BARELY CONTROL MYSELF!! Must... write... next... chapter...

**Chapter Six**

The whole room felt as if it were breathing around John. William's voice had an almost disturbingly mellifluous quality, melodic in its depth as the man began to talk into the darkness.

"I'm not the type to go out of my way to say these sorts of things, and... it's important that you know that. It's important in the very least if, as I intend, our relationship is going to progress the way in which I think would benefit us both."

"Relationship is a bit of an odd -"

"John," the voice admonished, irate. "This is very difficult for me and you're not making it any easier by interrupting."

John blinked. "Right. Sorry."

"When I took you on as my... mentee, shall we say, I was well aware of what I was undertaking. I understood the level of your depression and your dislike for assistance in all forms; it would take an idiot not to read that in your written tone, and as we've very well established, an idiot I am not."

"Yes, covered that just a few times."

" _John_."

"Sorry."

The voice continued. "You have wondered, directly to me, why in fact I chose you rather than rejecting you as I have every other student before now. It's natural for you to wonder this, and it is no secret to myself that I have perhaps wondered the same thing for myself on more than once occasion... it is not something I am used to. I am... not well-versed in what makes one person wish to communicate frequently with another."

John opened his mouth to deliver yet another agreement but, remembering just in time, stopped himself. He slowly pushed himself back further onto the bed, crossing his legs as he leaned his back against the cold wall and rested the laptop properly in his lap.

"I won't go into detail now – it is not the time, nor the place. What I can tell you, as it appears I must offer you  _something_  in order to convince you of my... dedication..." there was a small, audible intake of breath, "is that I believe we may be able to come to understand one another on some small level. Depending on the longevity of our arrangement, it could even be on a somewhat... bigger... level. Evidently I am weak in regards to social interaction and I oftentimes say the wrong thing completely, I am not totally ignorant to that and I'll confess to you now that when I often cannot find the right words to say I'll simply say nothing at all – this is a point well made by my earlier comment of 'I don't know what to say to you now', if you wish to refer back to our instant messages."

It was almost laughable, the way William struggled, yet at the same time John could not laugh at this man who was trying so hard. He understood the struggle, even if their reasons weren't the same.

"You were right in saying that I don't know you, that you don't know much - if anything - about me, but I think... you should know..." William's voice broke off. "Ugh, you should be aware..."

John could not help himself. "You're doing fine, William. Better than I would be under the same circumstances."

A moment of silence. "My circumstances  _are_  your circumstances."

He wasn't quite sure what William meant, but he didn't want to make things worse by changing the subject. "What is it I should be aware of?"

"Yes, quite." The voice cleared its throat, the noise loud in the shadowed room. "It is necessary for you to be aware that... just because I... don't... know you..." He sighed, clearly close to giving up. "It doesn't mean that I... don't... it doesn't mean that you aren't..."

John's voice was gentle when it slipped from his lips, surprising himself. "It doesn't mean that you don't care."

"Y...es."

"William, you have no reason to care about me," John murmured quietly, his stomach twisting in discomfort at the intensity of the conversation, mind unable to grasp how it had come to this. "And I don't say that for you to pity me, I really don't, but you have no...  _responsibility_  for me. You came into my life less than a week ago, you don't owe me  _anything_."

"Yes, but it's not as simple as that, is it?" William's voice was flustered, heightened in its volume in an almost humorous way. "This is  _exactly_  what Mycroft cautioned me about, I should really consider listening to him once or twice a year -"

"I'm sorry, who? Your croft?"

"Mycroft," the voice muttered, the word full of loathing. "My brother."

The revelation of a sibling was a genuinely surprising one. "You have a brother?"

"Mm. Older. Seven years, to be precise."

"Wow." John's eyebrows were raised, staring at the screen despite having nothing to look at. "Didn't peg you for a younger brother. Or a brother at all, to be honest."

"If only your imaginings were real, John, it would spare me such grief."

The tiniest of smiles twitched on his lips. "Don't get on, then?"

"He's an arrogant know-it-all with more brains than sense," William grumbled. John almost choked. "What?  _What_?"

"Sorry, sorry," John coughed, shaking his head and unable this time to suppress the grin that spread across his face, "but you have to admit it's a bit like the pot calling the kettle black."

"Spare me your outdated phrases, and what exactly are you insinuating?"

"Insinuating? No, William, I'm not  _insinuating_ , I'm saying very obviously that you just perfectly described yourself to me. You have to know that that's  _exactly_  how you come off to other people?"

William made a noise halfway between a groan and a sigh. "Only stupid people."

"Oh,  _thanks_!"

"We're getting off-topic," the voice said briskly, his tone obviously irritated, "and you're forcing me to insult you when the intention of this conversation was to try and attempt the exact opposite."

John grinned again, barely even conscious of his sudden lift in mood. "Oh please, by all means compliment me."

"I would if you stopped interrupting me every five seconds!"

"I was trying to help!"

"This is getting ridiculous now," William huffed. John could almost imagine his faceless body folding his arms and looking intensely sulky. "We may as well end the conversation here for all the good it's doing."

It was then that John felt it: the grin, the slight buzz in his head, the strange and mild leaping sensation in his stomach... the  _good_  it was doing. He gripped the laptop hard, ultimately determined to hold onto it as best as he could whilst it lasted. "You'd be surprised."

The voice was silent for a moment. "Why are you smiling so much?"

John's grin widened further still. "Who says I'm smiling?"

"You. Your tone. It's all... warm."

His stomach gave another twist, butterflies battling discomfort. His grin twisted into a smaller, awkward smile, feeling as if William could see through the screen and knew exactly what he was doing, how he was feeling. "Is it?"

Another brief silence. "Not anymore."

The two sat awkwardly in the quiet together for a few minutes, the only sound through the laptop speakers an occasional tapping noise as if William were drumming his fingers against the keyboard. John considered mentioning it, but after their odd little moment before it seemed inconsequential, unimportant. Then he decided that was exactly what was necessary. "Are you tapping -"

"Do you want to sleep?"

John's head jerked back slightly, bewildered. "What? Why?"

"I don't know, I thought you might be tired."

He was, despite the buzzing in his head. "I'm not."

"All right."

John let the silence linger for a few moments more before he gave up on it. "Was there anything else you needed to say? You  _were_  the one that called me."

"Hm. I don't know. You distracted me with your interruptions and... smiles."

The stomach-twist, the buzzing; the dark heightened them both. "Sorry."

"There was something else."

"Mm?"

William hesitated, the pause almost audible. "You said that I would prefer our relationship to be purely academic."

John's defences rose slightly. "I did."

"Why?"

"I was..." He sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. "I assumed you would rather it was less... emotional."

"Depression is generally unemotional."

"I know," John said, stomach clenching. "I've become quite familiar with that, obviously. But I'm not always so good at controlling what emotions I  _do_  experience, if only because they're so... unexpected."

When the voice spoke again, there was a hint of a smile there – John now felt a growing understanding of why William had used the word 'warm' earlier. It was strange. "Not to mention unfailingly negative, which evidently I inspire within you."

John's jaw tightened.

"John?"

"I'm still here."

Another awkward silence. "Did I say something wrong? Offensive?"

"No."

Yet more silence. "What are you thinking but not saying?"

John's sigh wrapped around him like a blanket. "I'm just as bad at this stuff as you. I can't just... come out with things. You'll have to be patient."

William remained quiet; John took this as his show of patience.

If he was going to say it, he may as well get it over with. "You do know... that... earlier. Earlier, when you... when I was smiling."

"Yes?"

John cleared this throat, deeply uncomfortable with the tension surrounding them – or perhaps just him. "You are aware that... it was  _you_..."

"I wasn't smiling."

"No. No, not that." God, they were a terrible combination of awkwardness and inability to communicate. "You, William... were the  _reason_  that I... was... smiling."

"Ah."

"Yeah." John cleared his throat again. "Yes, well, exactly."

William was clearly attempting to understand. "You're implying that the smile was... generated because of me."

"Generated?"

"Well, I don't know how else to put it!"

"Okay, all right," John said, gently clenching and unclenching his fists, "I understand."

"Good." More tapping came through the speakers. "So. Not just negative, then."

John's hands were beginning to shake; the vulnerability was back, revelations bringing about the same old reactions. "No."

"I'm... glad."

John frowned. "Are you? I thought..."

"You thought what?"

"I thought you'd rather skip all the emotional stuff and stick to a non-complicated, academic thing. Like you so strenuously put across in your e-mails."

"That was my initial intention, yes. But intentions aren't always... simple to follow through." William suddenly sounded exhausted, slightly confused. "I don't know, these sorts of things are usually beyond me. I understand the science behind them of course, that much is very easy to understand -"

"It's all right, William, you don't have to explain."

"Mm. Probably better if I don't try, I'll just end up confusing the both of us. But you clearly already understand the emotions behind a friendship, you mentioned earlier a best friend."

John found himself nodding slowly. "Yes, I do have social relationships. Not so much these days, but before, yes, I had them."

When William spoke, his deep voice was thoughtful. "So depression really does affect relationships quite as dramatically as they say?"

"In my experience, yes."

It was William's turn to clearly be holding something back, his silence speaking volumes; John picked up on it immediately.

"All right, your turn."

"What do you mean?"

John raised an eyebrow to the screen. "What are you thinking but not saying?"

The first laugh – a deep, low, throaty sound, brief but very real. It filled the air around John and made him feel as if he were surrounded by a nest of hot-water bottles, his entire body heated from within. It was a rare but familiar feeling, though he would be hard-pressed to find a name for it when so distracted by the sound as he was.

"So you  _are_  observant."

John smiled slightly. "Not like you."

"Still. It shows promise."

"Thank you...?"

"Mm."

John shuffled against the now warm spot on the wall, waiting. "So? What aren't you saying?"

He waited, slightly impatient, as William worked silently to find the right words; when they came, however, it was not what he had expected:

"Considering the... breakdown of your relationships. If you were to allow yourself to play upon the idea of... of  _our_  relationship... friendship... situation..." A tiny sigh. "I find it odd that you are somehow able to maintain a level of communication with... me, especially when people you've known for longer are not... involved... in this stage of your life."

John stayed quiet, if only because he had no idea what to say in response.

"And I wonder if it is at all possible that your depression is, perhaps, the  _only_  reason you are... communicating. With me."

John's teeth began worrying away at his lower lip. "Mm."

"You understand?"

"Yes, yes," he quickly said, not wanting his 'mm' to seem like an agreement of what William was suggesting. "I completely understand, and it's not... like that. I don't think." He forced himself to stop chewing at his lip, knowing from experience that he would subconsciously do it for so long that it would end up splitting and bleeding. "Although, of course, if I hadn't been depressed we probably wouldn't have spoken in the first place."

William allowed a moment to consider this. "Would you go as far as to consider it... a silver lining?"

John's entire body felt as if it were falling, his stomach knotting and jumping terribly. "Excuse me?"

"The phrase, 'to every cloud there is a silver lining' – I believe that's right?"

"Yes, but... I just... I wouldn't have ever considered there to  _be_  a silver lining to... my cloud."

William's response was quick, a little too quick. "Of course not. How ridiculous of me."

"No, I didn't mean -"

The voice that interrupted sounded horribly polite. "Please forgive me for being so thoughtless. Of course I understand that your depression is not something on which silver linings can be considered. Please accept my apologies, John."

He had to say  _something_. "You're the only thing to have made me smile since I started feeling this way."

Quiet.

"I mean, I've smiled, but it's never been  _real_ , there haven't been moments where I feel happy or content or amused enough to smile since this whole thing started to take over my life. You are... the only one to have done that."

If the tension had been too much for John before, it was nothing compared to waiting for William to respond. The silence dragged on.

"...William?"

"Thank you."

John sighed. "It's  _me_  who should be thanking  _you_."

"No one's ever said anything like that to me before."

Swallowing hard, John pushed his trembling hands between his legs to stop their movement. "Oh."

"It's very unfamiliar."

He did not know how to respond. "Oh. Well. Okay then."

"I..." The voice stopped, indecisive. "Would you call me your friend now? Is this what friendship is?"

John barked out a quiet laugh, still distinctly uncomfortable. "Nothing like I've had before, but... yes, I'm pretty sure we could call ourselves friends now."

"I don't really know how to do it."

"...do what?"

"Be someone's friend."

God, it was like talking to a child. John almost pitied him. "You're doing fine so far. I mean, you're irritating beyond belief sometimes, but everyone has flaws. Just... be...  _you_ , I suppose. Don't try too hard and you'll probably be fine."

"Right. Be me."

"Yes."

"John, this may mean... sometimes I may not talk to you. Sometimes I may not talk to you for days."

This was unsurprising to the aspiring doctor. "That's fine. I'm not always talkative either."

"I have... bad moods."

"So does everybody."

William paused. "I don't like talking to people face-to-face."

"Y'know it sounds to me like you don't want to really be friends at all, William, are you sure you want to go down this road?"

The voice was quiet, contemplative. "I have a suspicion I am not an easy man to be friends with."

"I have no doubt, but then I don't like you because you're easy to get on with."

William's condescending tone was back. "Huh, 'like'. You make it sound like we're children. I didn't think you liked me anyway, or that's what you said before."

John sighed; god, this was a lot of effort. "Well I'm not exactly in charge of how I feel day by day right now, am I? You'll have to just... be patient with me, as I'm going to have to be with you."

"Mm. Probably."

He let the silence go on for a bit, letting William get this thoughts in order. "So. Are you okay with all this?"

"What? Oh, with the friendship thing. Yes, yes, it's fine."

"All right. And are we still going to do the PAT business?"

William sounded sure of himself for the first time in a few minutes. "Oh, certainly. You need me."

"Not sure about  _need -_ "

"You do."

"Fine," John agreed, if only to stop an argument from brewing. It was far too late and he was far too tired for that. Speaking of which... "Listen, I should probably try and sleep for a bit."

"Yes, almost definitely. You've made quite enough progress for one evening."

John frowned, staring at the screen as he began to shake his head. "No, look... you're not my counsellor, all right? Friend is fine, therapist is not."

"...is there much of a difference?"

"Oh, god," he groaned, dragging his palm down his face in exasperation. "Yes, William, there's a difference. Look it up on Google."

"Ugh, Google. I should've known you'd be a fan."

"William."

The voice was slightly chastised. "Sorry. Can't help it sometimes."

"Try."

"Fine," the voice grumbled. "I'll let you sleep, then."

"Thank you. And look, I'm sorry about earlier, I've just had a really bad day of it today. Wasn't the easiest one in the world."

John felt that odd warmth around him again as William's voice came through the speakers in such gentle tones he could barely recognise it was the same person. "I know, John. It's all right."

"Okay. Well. Goodnight then, William. Thanks for... y'know. Calling."

William's voice was quieter than ever. "Goodnight, John."

John waited for a moment to see if there was anything more to come but, after a few seconds of quiet and tapping, he moved the cursor over the little flashing microphone icon and clicked it, ending the voice call. Slowly and carefully he moved his now rather warm laptop onto the desk chair, standing and walking lightly over to the sink and mirror, plucking his toothbrush from beside his flannel and glancing up to meet his own gaze in the mirror.

It took a little longer for the dullness to come back this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I need your opinion guys! First of all, this is how I imagine John to be (and was one of the youngest looking pictures I could find:)  
> [](http://postimage.org/)  
>   
> [how to make screen shot](http://postimage.org/app.php)
> 
> And you need to decide whether Sherlock is all clean-shaven like so:  
> [](http://postimage.org/)  
>   
> [windows screenshot](http://postimage.org/app.php)
> 
> OR not so clean-shaven in his youth:  
> [](http://postimage.org/)  
>   
> [free image hosting](http://postimage.org/)
> 
> Please let me know what you think is better! :D


	7. :P

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another little one to tide you over whilst I write the next chapter! :D

 

**Chapter Seven**

**To:**   _ **Watson, J**_

**From: _Harvey, J_**

**Date:** _April 24_ _th_ _2013 – 5:20pm_

 **Subject:** _Attendance_

_Hi John,_

_Just a little note to say it was nice to see you in my lecture and seminar today – how are you doing? Are you getting on all right with William?_

_Jo_

* * *

Straightening his back slightly to work the ache he'd been fighting for the last two hours (the workload from his seminar on top of William's daily materials were doing nothing good for his posture), John quickly began to hammer out a reply.

* * *

_Hi Joanne,_

_It was an interesting one today, and luckily because of William I'd already covered much of what you set out for us. We're getting on all right, he's a little intense with the workload but in general it seems to be going fine, thanks._

_Hope you're well._

_John_

* * *

Glancing at his watch and squeezing his eyes tightly shut, he wondered to himself how much longer he could put off talking to Mike about the party that evening; he couldn't avoid it forever, especially as Mike had been so enthusiastic in his texts about him going. Though he'd managed his first set of classes for the first time in a while that very day, he was so exhausted from the sheer effort of leaving his room that he had a sneaking suspicion that even if he were to attend he would manage to stay for a maximum of ten minutes before begging off and leaving early.

Literally as this thought went through his mind his phone began to buzz. Knowing instantly that it was now or never, he picked it up and opened the call.

"Mike. Hi."

"Hey, John! Was calling to see what time to expect you at Greg's tonight!"

God, he sounded so eager. John leaned his forehead against the heel of his hand, dreading what was to come next. "Yeah, about that... I've got such a lot on at the moment, I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to make it."

Mike's silence was all to easy to read. "Oh. Well..."

"I'm sorry."

"What if you just showed up for an hour?" The man was clearly begging. "Come on, John, it's been fucking  _ages_  since you socialised with everyone – with me." Oh, the hurt in his voice would have been painful to listen to if John wasn't so tired. "Please, mate. One hour. That's all I'm asking for."

Sighing inwardly, John felt his fingers shift to rake his hair, hating every second of this conversation with a dull passion. "Mike... I'm just so  _tired..._ "

"We're all tired," his friend said, suddenly sounding a little less desperate and a little more impatient, "but we all have to make the effort for our friends, especially after such a bloody long time. It wouldn't kill you to spend an hour out of your room -"

"I get out of my room," John protested defensively, head rising from his hand. "I had classes today, do you think I stayed in my room for those?"

"Social occasions don't include mandatory seminars, John," Mike sighed. "I can't believe you can't squeeze in one hour to see your friends. To see  _me_  for crying out loud, I'm supposed to be your best friend."

John gritted his teeth, too tired to be irritated but knowing he would probably find the energy to snap at his friend should he keep pushing. "You are my best friend, Mike, it's just been a difficult couple of months. It's not like I've been enjoying not being able to see you -"

"So see me. Come tonight."

"No," he said bluntly. "I'm sorry, but I can't come. I'll come next time or something, all right?"

Silence, before: "Fine. See you some other time, when you can be bothered." And further silence as Mike hung up the phone.

John threw the phone onto his bed, letting out a groan that was closer to a yell, the little effort it took to increase his volume sapping his energy even further. Now instead of simply being exhausted he was in a bad mood, and a bad mood led to an evening of utter nothing. The frustration at his friend wouldn't last long, and soon he'd be flat on his bed, falling into a very deep, very dreamless sleep -

_~Bing~_

"Oh, fuck it," he moaned, forgetting that it was Friday, forgetting his bloody appointment with William (whom he hadn't spoken to in a few days other than receiving course materials and emails with John's edited notes, illustrating the genius's previous comment of his disappearances for days at a time) – he opened the conversation window and raked his eyes over the words with building irritation.

_**Holmes, W:**  Good afternoon, John._

_**Watson, J:**  Is it?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Perhaps not. Bad day?_

_**Watson, J:**  Not until two minutes ago, but hey, at the moment I'm lucky to have any days that aren't total and utter crap. Can't complain._

_**Holmes, W:**  I have evidence on my computer that you do. Conversation history, you know._

_**Watson, J:**  Ha bloody ha._

_**Holmes, W:**  Dare I ask what set off this rather delightful mood of yours?_

_**Watson, J:**  Friends._

_**Holmes, W:**  Ah. Does this include me?_

_**Watson, J:**  I'm actually shocked to say that no, it doesn't. Though you might want to take care with how snarky you are today, because I just might go off the deep end with you._

_**Holmes, W:**  Hmm. Perhaps you'd like to rearrange our appointment._

_**Watson, J:**  To be honest, William, I'm not really sure what I have to say. I did the work, you sent it back to me, it was all a learning experience, as ever._

_**Watson, J:**  Sorry, I know I'm being a cock_

_**Watson, J:**  I'm just not in the right place to be enthusiastic._

_**Holmes, W:**  All right._

_**Holmes, W:**  May I ask what, in relation to friends, put you in this mood?_

_**Holmes, W:**  You don't have to, of course, if you'd rather keep it to yourself._

_**Watson, J:**  No, it's all right. I was invited to a party tonight and I essentially just ruined one of my remaining friendships by saying that I can't go._

_**Watson, J:**  Usually I'd feel bad, but I have enough guilt to be getting on with from a purely self-involved perspective_

_**Holmes, W:**  A party? That could be good for you, John._

_**Watson, J:**  You do know what parties are, right? Big groups of people in an over-crowded student pit of a house, a general overflow of alcohol and loud music that makes socialising far more difficult than it already is? Virtual hell?_

_**Holmes, W:**  I'm familiar with the concept, yes. Who's throwing this satanic pit of flames, then?_

_**Watson, J:**  You won't know him, Greg Lestrade. Mike knows him from hockey, we've met a few times. Nice enough bloke, though I've never been to one of his house parties, or his house come to think of it._

_**Holmes, W:**  Men who hit a hard object with sticks, just my sort of crowd... or perhaps not._

_**Watson, J:**  Yeah, well. I'm not going._

_**Holmes, W:**  Hmm._

_**Holmes, W:**  That's a pity._

_**Watson, J:**  Eh? Why?_

_**Holmes, W:**  You might get something out of it if you go. You could do with going out, seeing some new faces, painting the town a dull sort of grey._

A tiny grin turned up the corners of John's mouth.

_**Watson, J:**  I think it's more a sort of magnolia these days. Like the paint on my walls._

_**Holmes, W:**  Ah yes, university campus accommodation – because our souls aren't damaged enough already._

_**Watson, J:**  Yeah, exactly._

_**Watson, J:**  But you don't live on campus, do you?_

_**Holmes, W:**  No, I rent a small house in town with an acquaintance._

_**Watson, J:**  You live with someone? How does THAT work?_

_**Holmes, W:**  We get on well enough. He keeps out of my way, I keep out of his; generally we get on all right when he is around, though, even if he's not the brightest spark._

_**Watson, J:**  Of course he isn't, not compared to you, oh mighty pylon!_

_**Holmes, W:**  Flatterer._

John's grin widened slightly, feeling the stress ebb somewhat; he had no idea how William did it, it was... odd.

_**Holmes, W:**  You really should consider the party, though._

_**Watson, J:**  You are kidding me._

_**Holmes, W:**  I'm being completely genuine, John. You need to try and keep your bridges intact, no matter how difficult it is. Depression can truly destroy your friendships; though your friends may seem to be more irritating than interesting at this point in your life one day you're going to feel better, and who will you have then, once you've burned your bridges?_

_**Watson, J:**  How do you know so much about depression? You're always spouting things about it._

_**Holmes, W:**  Please John, I'm a certified genius. I know about all sorts of things that your head couldn't even contemplate._

_**Watson, J:**  Ah, I missed you._

_**Holmes, W:**  Pardon?_

_**Watson, J:**  The smug, arrogant arsehole. I missed him._

_**Holmes, W:**  Insult me all you like, it's the truth._

_**Watson, J:**  Ah yes, and you always tell the truth._

_**Holmes, W:**  Precisely._

_**Watson, J:**  ...do you really think I should go to this party, then?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Oh, absolutely._

_**Holmes, W:**  If only to satisfy all of your friends._

_**Watson, J:**  Hmm. I don't like the fact that I'm considering actually taking your advice. It's disturbing._

_**Holmes, W:**  I already dictate your academic life, you may as well give in and let me dictate your personal life too._

_**Holmes, W:**  :P_

_**Watson, J:**  Um, William? What the hell are you doing?_

_**Holmes, W:**  I don't know, I thought people did that._

_**Holmes, W:**  I assume it's supposed to be a tongue poking out, I'm not altogether sure._

_**Watson, J:**  Please don't do it again, it makes you seem frighteningly normal._

_**Holmes, W:**  Noted._

_**Holmes, W:**  So. Are you going to the party?_

_**Watson, J:**  I really don't know. What are you going to do all evening if I'm not here to entertain you?_

_**Holmes, W:**  For your information, I already have a social engagement planned. Utterly ridiculous and I have no interest in going whatsoever, but apparently it's necessary._

John frowned. William had a social life? Since when?

_**Watson, J:**  What is it, a date?!_

_**Holmes, W:**  Oh, do grow up._

_**Watson, J:**  So what is it, you have to suffer so you're forcing me to suffer too?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Isn't that the basis of friendship?_

_**Watson, J:**  If you'd played Ring of Fire with Mike before, you'd know yourself to be completely right._

_**Holmes, W:**  What on earth is Ring of Fire?_

_**Watson, J:**  A drinking game. Deck of cards around a pint glass, everyone takes one card at a time and each card means something._

_**Holmes, W:**  A consequence-based drinking game, essentially?_

_**Watson, J:**  Yeah, exactly. Like, one card means all the men have to drink; another might mean you have to add some of your drink to the pint glass. At the end, whoever draws the last Ace has to drink the pint in the middle._

_**Holmes, W:**  That sounds positively vulgar._

_**Watson, J:**  It is. Mike's favourite is the 'link' card, where you can link two friends together so that whenever one of them has to drink, the other does too. He always links himself with me so that I have to suffer alongside him, it ends up veeeery messy._

_**Holmes, W:**  Remind me never to play that game with you._

_**Watson, J:**  William, I can't even imagine you drinking, let alone playing drinking games._

_**Holmes, W:**  I drink. Wine. Maybe the occasional glass of brandy._

_**Watson, J:**  Wow. Remind me never to play drinking games with YOU. I'd hate to see how you'd end up trying to play Ring of Fire with brandy!_

_**Holmes, W:**  So we're agreed in this – no drinking games within the company of the other._

_**Watson, J:**  Deal._

_**Watson, J:**  Oh god, I'm going to the party, aren't I?_

_**Holmes, W:**  I dictate it, therefore it shall be._

_**Watson, J:**  I'm not your bitch, Will._

_**Holmes, W:**  Ugh, please don't call me that. Nobody calls me that. So common._

_**Watson, J:**  Bill?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Why would you make it worse?_

_**Watson, J:**  Well, one of these days I might want to call you a nickname, and what does that leave me with?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Oh, I don't know... I'll come up with something._

_**Watson, J:**  I really don't want to go to this party. Can't I just stay in my room and complain about how I'm feeling to you all night instead?_

_**Holmes, W:**  I'm flattered you want to spend that much time with me, John._

_**Holmes, W:**  And as exciting as that really and truly sounds, I do have plans which I genuinely cannot avoid._

_**Watson, J:**  First of all, shut it...!_

_**Watson, J:**  Second of all, well, if I have to suffer I'm going to make you listen to me anyway._

_**Watson, J:**  Do you have a mobile?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Not since I was a child._

_**Holmes, W:**  :P_

_**Watson, J:**  Oh god, please stop that..._

_**Holmes, W:**  Sorry, wanted to try it one more time._

_**Holmes, W:**  Yes, I have a mobile phone. Is that your way of asking for my phone number?_

_**Watson, J:**  In a completely unweird way, yes it is._

_**Holmes, W:**  Interesting. If I give it to you, do you promise not to send me any chain texts or ridiculous pictures of cats wearing hats?_

_**Watson, J:**  Christ, yes. You have my solemn word._

_**Holmes, W:**  All right. It's 07756982598._

_**Watson, J:**  Hang on_

_**Watson, J:** Did you get that?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Why did you call me and just hang up?_

_**Watson, J:**  It was the easiest way to give you my number, calm down!_

_**Holmes, W:**  Ah._

_**Watson, J:**  Ok, well I'm going to bugger off and start attempting to hide the fact that I've lost two stone and make myself look relatively human._

_**Holmes, W:**  That's the spirit._

_**Watson, J:**  Don't get too cocky. I meant it about texting you, I'm not going to let you enjoy a single moment of your night!_

_**Holmes, W:**  We'll see._

_**Holmes, W:**  Speak to you later then, John._

_Holmes, W is offline._


	8. First Impressions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another tiny chapter, but I reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeally hope you like it! -massive grin- Bet some of you guessed what was coming... MORE TOMORROW! Comments and reviews appreciated! <3

**Chapter Eight**

Standing outside in the chilly night air and staring up at Greg's house, John wished he'd brought a coat.

The house had surprised him. Meeting Greg Lestrade you certainly wouldn't imagine he'd live a stones throw away from Greenwich Park in a pretty little neighbourhood and a pretty little house; it was an end-of-terrace house, old red brick, a bay window to the front. Where most of the houses along the street had turned their little front gardens into a driveway, 221 Well Place had a little lawn and flower bed, beautifully tended and clearly not the work of an amateur. John stared at the flowers, their colour bright even in the darkness, beginning to wonder if Greg was, in fact, a raging homosexual.

He took two steps towards the door before it was flung open. Standing there, drink in hand, flushed in the face and grinning like she'd never experienced alcohol before was Molly, a girl from his course and another person he had once considered a friend... and jesus, did she looked absolutely  _hammered._

"John! Oh my god, you actually  _came_!" She shot towards him, holding her drink out to her side as she flung a slender arm around his neck and pulled him forward to kiss him right on the cheek; instantly he felt himself tense, defences up from her rapid descent into his personal space and fighting hard not to throw her off. "I can't believe you  _came_ , Mike will be so  _excited_!"

"Yeah, well I think you're probably excited enough for at least half of the party, Molly," he said with a small smile, reaching up and untangling her arm from around him and patting it lightly with his other hand before letting it go. "Had a few drinks, have we?"

"Ohhh, one or two," she giggled, bringing the plastic cup to her lips and taking a swig of whatever the red liquid inside was. "Greg made punch and it tastes like pick and mix, seriously -"

"I'll try some when I get in there," he said pointedly, gesturing towards the house, "unless you want to spend the whole night out here catching pneumonia?"

Laughing more still, Molly turned and headed back into the house, her slightly shrill voice floating back out of the door as he walked towards it - "MIKE! It's JOHN!" - and giving him every reason to want to turn around and call a cab to take him home... but no, he was in the door now and had closed it behind him, he might as well give it a few more minutes before he gave up entirely.

The hallway of the house was decorated with fairy lights – again John considered the idea of Greg's raging homosexuality – and was warm and welcoming, wooden floor instead of the carpet he was expecting and warm yellow walls offsetting the generally cosy feel. There were a few people sitting on the – carpeted – stairs, talking in hushed tones and grinning over more cups of the red stuff (presumably Greg's punch), all of whom looked up as he entered and nodded their welcome, two of them even raising a hand. He nodded back, not recognising any one of them but assuming (correctly) that they were already under the influential effects of the pick and mix punch so naturally were willing to be friendly to a complete stranger in their midst. He continued to walk slow steps, glancing to his right-hand side and jerking in surprise at the huge mirror hanging over a radiator, his reflection crisp in the lighting; he found himself looking over his clothes with a critical eye, the crinkles at the front of his dark blue plaid shirt, how the black t-shirt underneath it made him look pale, washed out. Thank god he couldn't see his lower half to judge that, because no doubt even his favourite jeans wouldn't be able to save his self-esteem now. Add to it the mess of his hair and the circles underneath his eyes and he looked like absolute shite.

Taking a few steadying breaths (and feeling all too aware of the people on the stairs watching him), he started to make his way towards a room that looked very much like the kitchen, already feeling the heat of all the bodies in other rooms getting to him; at least in the kitchen there would be doors to stand by, outside space to linger near in case it all got too much. Before he had a chance to reach the room, however, someone came out of the first door on the right (just past the mirror) and grabbed his arm.

He'd never seen Mike smile so widely before.

"JOHN!" the man yelled, throwing his arm around John's shoulder – my, everyone was touchy-feely today – and squeezing him, shaking him, almost bouncing up and down in his evident (somewhat drunken) joy at seeing his best friend. "John, you jammy fucker, you made it! I never thought I'd see you tonight but you  _made it_!"

"Yes, I'm... I'm here," John said with a slightly bigger smile than the one he'd offered Molly, trying as subtly as he could to slide out from underneath Mike's arm, "and it looks as if everyone is pretty much already sloshed. Did you save anything for me?"

"HE'S BACK! HEEEE'S BAAAACK!" Mike roared, slapping him heartily on the back and leaning back so that everyone near the doorway in the next room – a nice living room, though it was hard to tell in the dark – could see him; though John was fairly certain that nobody in the room actually had any idea who he was they all cheered, raising their drinks in drunken good-humour and grinning at him like their lives depended on it. He raised a hand in a half-hearted wave, trying to remember how he used to act in large social gatherings, taking Mike's lead as the man started to guide him towards the kitchen. "Got some drinks in here, a hell of a wicked punch that Greg made -"

"We ran out of cherry vodka, Mikey!" a voice yelled from the kitchen as a man not much younger than John barrelled around the edge of the doorway and stood there, glaring at the two of them as they made their way towards him. "But I've sent out a capable team to get reinforcements, don't you panic! JOHN!" He reached out and clapped John on the shoulder, eyes sparkling as he grinned a genuinely warm smile in his direction. "So good to see you mate, and welcome to mi casa! Don't spill anything, my housemate'll go spare..."

"I'll be careful," John promised, stepping around a cup that seemed to be sitting in the middle of the floor for absolutely no reason whatsoever and casting his gaze quickly over the kitchen; it was small but airy, the same warm yellow as the hallway. A glass door led out to what looked to be a well-tended rear garden already full of about twelve people smoking in little groups, a pathway leading up to a small decking with what looked like a little water-feature poking out of some reeds at the end. It was such a nice house. What the hell was Greg doing living there? "Nice little place you -"

"GOTTA TAKE A PISS!" Mike interrupted with a yell, perhaps over-exaggerating the need to do so when the music was only really deafening in the living room and only somewhat audible in the kitchen, but then he couldn't really judge his friend. He could tell exactly the effect his mere presence at the party was having on Mike and he would put up with all the yelling, touching and drinking as best as he could for as long as he could. The fact that Mike had welcomed him with open arms and not mentioned at all the fact that John was a total arsehole of late meant that he was owed John's presence and patience, for as long as the twenty-three year old could possibly manage.

Greg motioned for John to join him at what was evidently the drinks station, bottles of rum and vodka and god knows what else sitting in a frighteningly large group amidst piles and piles of plastic cups; John wandered over and took an empty cup offered to him, looking at the offerings and biting his lower lip.

"What would you suggest, Greg? You're the host, you can tell me what to drink first."

"Might regret that," the man said with a grin, instantly reaching out and grabbing a bottle of something green and inexplicably bright. "Have some of this with lemonade – it'll knock your  _socks_  off."

"I'd rather keep my socks on if that's all right, but I'll give it a go anyway," John agreed, taking the bottle off of Greg and twisting the cap off, tipping until a quarter of the cup was full of the green stuff. "Will it make me ill?"

Greg pursed his lips. "Can't make you any promises."

"Fuck it," he said with a little grin, grabbing the lemonade and filling it up to the brim, "it's Saturday tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah it is!" Greg said with a laugh, knocking back a shot of something blue. "LET'S GET THIS PARTY STARTEEED!"

As the crowd cheered and a group of people descended upon Greg and John – John still trying to screw the lid for the lemonade back on the bottle – a cold air drifted in, someone entering the kitchen behind where they stood and the rustle of bags and clinking of bottles revealing the appearance of what Greg had called his 'reinforcements'.

"They didn't have the store-brand cherry vodka, Greg, so I got the name-brand bottle instead. It was eight pounds dearer but I assume that won't bother you in your current state of inebriation -"

John's entire body froze like a deer in headlights, his head spinning before he'd even taken a sip of the now pale-green concoction in his cup, hand still grasping tight onto the lemonade bottle; that voice, that  _voice..._  deep, melodic, perfectly enunciated syllables and oh god, oh god, if he turned around now -

"Fuck sake, Sherlock, you think I can afford name-brand cherry vodka?!"

The voice became slightly bored, a butterflies-in-the-stomach condescending familiarity so shocking to John's already frozen form that he couldn't even bring himself to turn and face the newest addition to the room: "Considering I pay the entirety of the rent and you invited all of your friends into our house for a party I most definitely didn't agree to, yes, I think that you can afford to pay me back every penny."

John's hand slid down the lemonade bottle, desperately searching for something to hold onto – the edge of the work-surface was good enough, giving him something to lean on...

"Fucking hell," Greg muttered, walking out of sight. "You got the JD though, right? And the sambuca?"

"Yes, Greg, I followed your predictable list of refreshments to a fine point."

"Great, thanks Sherlock. Oh, right -" John could feel Greg's eyes move to his back, knew exactly what was now coming, " - Sherlock, this is my mate John from uni, one of Mike's friends -"

_Why are you calling him that when his name's William?_

There was a pause, palpable in the metres of space between them, so solid it was almost tangible. John found himself turning slowly on the spot, hands grasping tight to both the clear cup of alcohol and the black work-surface of the kitchen cabinet as he forced himself to  _grow the fuck up_ and face what he should have predicted would be here all along, what he should have realised from their earlier conversation... eventually he was facing the right direction, eyes dragging themselves from their spot on the floor until he finally, painstakingly pulled his gaze up to the face of William Holmes.

Ice-blue eyes met his.

"Hello, John," the voice – William – said calmly, gaze piercing, unwavering.

Greg was completely ignorant, grinning at John. "John, this is my housemate, Sherlock Holmes. Bit of a bastard but at least he went out and got us alcohol."

William...  _Sherlock?_...let his gaze flicker briefly to Greg, lids shifting down to narrow slightly as he acknowledged Greg's analysis. "If you really object to living here so stridently you are more than welcome to find your own place to live."

"And pay rent?" Greg waved the idea away with a bark of laughter, reaching out and grabbing the cherry vodka and moving back towards a still-frozen John. "Bugger that. You're a  _great_ housemate." He looked up at John, nodding enthusiastically. "He's a  _great_  housemate."

"That's what I thought," William murmured, turning his intense eyes back to John. "You have to give your friend a good first impression of me, Greg. First impressions are  _so_  important."

He winked.


	9. Timeshare In Dubai

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgot to send the original draft of this chapter home from work, so had to rewrite this evening - went in a totally different direction to what I was planning!! ANYHOO, hope you enjoy it! :D R&R, my lovelies!

** Chapter Nine **

Mike staggered back into the room and threw his arm around John. "All right mate, let's get fucking  _wasted_!"

John's mouth was slightly open, torn between staring at the man who was apparently not only William but Sherlock too, someone who lived with an acquaintance but also lived with one of John's casual friends and giving Mike enough enthusiasm that he would have no idea that something that shouldn't have been a big deal but  _was absolutely a big deal_  had taken place. He managed a small "err..." before he remembered his responsibility to Mike, tearing his eyes away from the periwinkle stare and razor-sharp cheekbones of the genius standing mere metres away from him and shoving a smile on his face big enough to fool anyone as drunk as Mike clearly was.

"Let's do this!" he agreed as enthusiastically as possible, raising the cup of now pale-green liquid in honour of his apparent 'getting wasted' mission and throwing the cup back against his lips and letting the citrus explosion burn its way down his throat. "I'm ready when you are."

Mike's glazed-over eyes shifted from John to William (Sherlock?), squinting. "Didn't interrupt anything, did I?"

John opened his mouth to speak, but William got there first. "No," he said, baritone voice offhanded as he turned away from them both and picked up a single bottle of red wine from the table. "He's all yours."

The way he said it didn't sit well with John, though why he wasn't sure. "Well, I can -"

Without warning Mike began to drag him back towards the copious amounts of alcohol. "Shots, John. It is  _time... for... SHOTS._ "

Part of John felt a fierce desire to dig his heels in, to stop Mike from pulling him away and engage William in a conversation about who the hell he was and what was going on with the double-identity, but deep within him he knew that the tall (taller than John, anyway) man had already dismissed him and would not be easy to call back to attention. He watched out of the corner of his eye as William began to leave the room, face unsmiling and completely avoiding John's area of the room completely.

He called out before he could stop himself. "Want to do some shots, Wi...Sherlock?"

William slowed, but did not stop. "No thanks." With that, he unceremoniously left the room and left John's sight, heading off to god knows where; in the pit of John's stomach he felt an odd twist, head reminding him that he was probably one of William's only friends. The guy had said himself that he had no idea how friendships truly worked, and Mike commandeering John and John  _letting_  him do so had probably not set the best first impressions of friendship. He couldn't help it; he felt bad.

"Did I hear you say Sambuca, Greg?" Mike asked loudly from beside him, grabbing a couple of plastic shot glasses.

"Yeah mate, right here!" Greg grabbed the bottle from the table and grinned widely, darting around a chair and joining them. "Wanna do the Deadly Three?"

"Oh god," John muttered, shaking his head. "You both know that only ends in... well, vomit."

Greg nodded, eyes shining as he pulled two more bottles forward on the sideboard. "Sambuca. Tequila. Jagermeister.  _This. Is. Happening._ "

"I don't want to get too – oh, right, there we are." Mike had already poured three shots of Jagermeister and was now pushing it into John's hand. "Guess there's no point in making any plans for tomorrow morning..."

"Too fucking right," Greg crowed, quickly (and with no precision whatsoever) pouring out a shot each of Tequila and Sambuca for the three of them, taking the shot of Jager from Mike with the tip of his fingers and looking at both of them in turn. "Ready for this, fella's?"

"Never," John said, raising his eyes to the heavens in prayer, "but I don't think I have much of a choice. Cheers, guys," he added, raising his shot glass before throwing the burning, disgusting alcohol down his throat and shuddering. "Oh god, I hate this stuff -"

"MAN UP, JOHN!" Greg yelled, grabbing the Tequila and motioning quickly for the others to do the same. "TIME FOR TEQUILA!"

They didn't bother with the the salt or lime; they never did. They necked the Tequila, slamming the shot glasses down and bringing the last shot up to their lips, Sambuca – the only one that John could personally stomach without wanting to throw up – and throwing it down after the others. The three of them stood in a row, shuddering, grinning, the burning sensation leading a streak of heat down John's chest and making him feel a little better, a little more confident. When was the last time he'd had a drink? And why oh why hadn't he eaten anything of substance today?!

He was going to regret the Deadly Three.

It turned out that he would do it not once more, but twice – a group of girls came in (a totally wrecked, overly-affectionate Molly included), screaming for a challenge; Greg masterfully took over, pouring shots out for everyone in the vicinity (and apparently for the fridge and the sideboard too judging by the sticky mess slowly spreading out across the surface) and demanding that they do it in record time. By this point (other drinks having been consumed in the form of a crowded game of Ring of Fire and another of simply 'whoever claps last has to drink') John was feeling the affects of the alcohol big time, heat and confidence spreading through his body like flames until he no longer remembered what it was like to want to hide away. Why hadn't he realised this before? Alcohol was  _clearly_  the answer to awkward social situations! He ignored the warning in the back of his mind that sounded awfully like his definitely alcoholic sister, Harriet, sipping contentedly on the pick and mix punch and laughing as Greg regaled them with tales of his misspent first year at university.

Just as he realised he needed a refill, he felt a vibration in his pocket that was both pleasant and surprising in equal measures; he struggled to get it out, eventually managing to fumble enough that he could see he had received a text:

_**William:** You look like you're having a lot of fun._

Instantly his head shot up, bypassing the heads in the room and instinctively swivelling to look out of the window and into the garden – sure enough there was a tall, slender figure leaning against the fence, face turned towards him; their eyes met.

He couldn't control himself, the alcohol had too much power over him; two hours beforehand he would have simply offered a small smile, maybe even a wave, but new and more-than-tipsy John had other ideas. He walked in almost a straight line to the garden door, waving away protests at his departure from his apparently new, sloshed friends - "Air, I need air!" - and pulled it open, a welcome burst of cold air rushing in and hitting his flushed face with a freshness that felt almost bitter. He savoured it for a few moments before remembering why he had opened the door in the first place.

He stepped out, pulling the door closed behind him. "William!"

William's eyes fixed on his, expressionless; slowly the man lifted his arm, the burning end of a cigarette glowing in the darkness as he took in a deep pull, holding it in his lungs for a few moments before exhaling and replacing the cigarette with a glass of wine instead. He took a sip, not looking away for a single second as he did all of this. He did not speak.

John shuffled awkwardly on the spot. "Having... fun?"

"Oh, tons," William said in low, sarcastic tones. "I've already been propositioned three times and it's not even midnight."

John laughed, the sound loud in the empty night air. "Sounds like a brilliant night to me, I wouldn't mind being propositioned!"

William's eyes narrowed, uncomfortably judgemental. "Yes, I'd imagine you wouldn't. Amazing what a few drinks can do for depression."

The warmth in John's cheeks was suddenly no longer pleasant; a mixture of shame and irritation flooded through him. "Someone's in a bad mood. What, everyone too happy for you?"

"Not everyone," William said disparagingly, "just you."

John's mouth dropped open, eyes widening as he absorbed William's words. Wasn't this the man who had encouraged him to come, to relax and have a good time with his friends? "I'm sorry, have I done something to offend you or angered you in some way? Because four hours ago you were telling me to come and have fun and now you're berating me for doing just that."

William dropped his half-smoked cigarette to the ground and crushed it with his heel, bringing the glass of wine up to his lips and taking a long sip. "Not at all. I'm glad you've found something to substitute for happiness, and alcohol probably  _is_  the best choice for you. Easy to get hold of."

John's muscles coiled, irritation tripping into anger. "So... you're pissed off at me for drinking? Is that what this is about?"

Without warning William had pushed himself off of the fence and had taken two, long steps towards John, stopping mere inches from him; John forced himself to stay where he was, ignoring his desire to move away as William's eyes bore into his – he had to tilt his chin up to meet the gaze, something that made his anger feel twice as powerful as it mixed with embarrassment.

When William spoke it was in low tones, quiet, dangerously so. "It's an easy slide into substance abuse when you have depression, John. One night of drinking could all too easily turn into another, then another, another until finally you're drinking first thing in the morning and last thing at night. You've seen the statistics in class, you're not an idiot."

"No, I'm not," John argued back in a heated whisper, matching William's volume. "But I'm not someone with a history of substance abuse, William, I'm not someone who's prone to becoming reliant on addictions. It's one night of fun," he insisted, jabbing his finger downwards in the air to accentuate his point, "and you have no right to tell me what's right for me. No right at all."

"Sherlock," William hissed. "It's  _Sherlock_ , not William anymore."

John threw his hands up in the air. "Oh, well if we're doing this now – why the hell would you tell me your name's William if your name is Sherlock?! What, you were playing with me? What else don't I know, are you married? Have three illegitimate children? A time-share in Dubai?"

Amusement flitted across Wi...Sherlock's features. "A time-share in Dubai?"

John didn't want to smile. He didn't. "Well, I... I don't know, do I?" He tried to ignore the tiny smile edging onto Wil...goddamn it,  _Sherlock's_  face. "Don't laugh, I'm pissed off at you. I need to be pissed off at you right now."

Sherlock frowned, bewildered. "Why do you  _need_  to be pissed off at me?"

An exasperated sigh drew itself from John's throat as he shook his head, placing his hands on his hips. "Because apparently I need to get pissed off with you at least once a day or the world will implode, I don't know." He brought his hands up to his face, rubbing it hard, skin still hot despite the cold air around them. "Goddamn it, William."

"Sherlock."

"Arrgh, why? Why Sherlock? Why William?"

The man without a solid name shrugged casually, holding his wine up to his lips but not drinking. "Friends and family call me Sherlock."

John's head couldn't navigate this very well. "Friends? What friends?"

The genius sighed, rolling his eyes. "Well up until about two minutes ago I  _had_  friends, though now it's probably back down to just Greg if the look on your face is anything to go by."

John realised too late that he had been scrunching his face up in confusion. "William..." He shut his eyes for a moment. "Sorry. Sherlock." He glanced up at him, a small nod offered his way in return. "I'm still your friend, I just need to remember that you're... you're..."

"I'm...?"

"Even more awkward in real life than online." Yes, that was accurate enough. "Bloody changeable, too."

Sherlock set the glass of wine down on the windowsill next to him and slowly slipped his hands inside his pockets. "You think I'm an arsehole right now, don't you?"

"Yeah, a bit."

The burning gaze was back, fixated completely on John as Sherlock rocked back and forth on his heels slightly; John found himself rooted to the spot, wondering inwardly if Sherlock had any bloody clue how intense he was, knowing deep down that the clueless man probably had absolutely no idea. No wonder he'd been propositioned three times tonight, if he was looking at the insanely drunk girls with those eyes. If John was a rabbit caught in Sherlock's headlights then those girls were already roadkill.

Eventually Sherlock spoke, maintaining his steady focus.

"If I'm being an arsehole, John, it's merely out of concern. As your friend, and I assure you that I'm intent on keeping that title, it's my duty to look out for you. I read about it."

"You..." John squinted, not sure he'd heard right. "You read about it."

"Yes."

"...where, exactly?"

A pained expression flashed across Sherlock's partly-shadowed face. "Google."

For a moment John could do nothing but stare at the man, eyes wide as he processed the information handed to him on a golden platter; it was only as Sherlock started to frown at his lack of reaction that John felt the laughter bubbling from the depths of his throat, grin spreading across his face as the noise began to slip out from between his lips, too loud but impossible to stop. The pained expression was back on Sherlock's face, his arms folding across his chest as he stared daggers at his smaller friend.

"What? Why are you  _laughing_  at me?"

John could not stop. Peals of laughter shot around the garden, loud enough that eyes from the kitchen began to peek outside, so loud and long that Sherlock began to look concerned for his friend's sanity, reaching out with a hand but not quite touching him.

"John.  _John!_  You sound like you're having a fit, calm down!"

Without thinking about what he was doing, John reached out and batted Sherlock's large hand out of his way; his warmth was a stark contrast to Sherlock's cold skin and the effect was instantaneous. Sherlock took a rapid step backwards, pulling his hand back as if it had been burned; John's sharp intake of breath ceased all laughter and brought to him an overwhelming sense of clarity, mind and vision clear as he took in the sight of Sherlock's blank, shocked expression. He had no idea if it was just the fact that the two hadn't touched until now, or perhaps because the temperature difference had been so surprising... but then, there  _was_  a more likely option. Both he and Sherlock were people who did not  _touch_. They didn't hug, didn't shake hands for longer than was necessary. He didn't need to be a genius to work out that blatant similarity in their personalities, and in all honesty it was actually a bit of a relief to know that he wouldn't have to go through all of the awkwardness forced upon him by people like Mike and Molly, connoisseurs in physical affection. He and Sherlock didn't have to do that if they didn't want to, and he had no doubt in his mind that  _that_  would ever change.

He spoke, if only to break through the tension. "Sorry – about the laughter. I just... you hate Google. And you Googled 'friendship'. I told you to do that and you did it."

Staring at him apprehensively, Sherlock waited a few beats before responding, repeating words John had used only a few hours ago in low, melodic waves of sound. "I'm not your bitch, John."

A brief smile flitted across John's face, his head tilting slightly to one side. "Wanna bet?"

Before Sherlock had a chance to bite back, a retort already freshly curled on his tongue, a loud crunching noise signalling the opening of the garden door interrupted them both and bathed them in a flood of light, Greg's well-built silhouette blocking out any view of anything behind him.

"There you are, you bastard. You owe me three shots of Sambuca for the clapping game."

John's eyes slid to meet Sherlock's; there was a moment of unspoken conversation,a flashback to earlier. It was not difficult to say what he said next.

"I'll give it a miss, Greg. Think I'm gonna head off soon."

"No!"

"Yes," John said firmly, shoving his hands in his pockets and shrugging apologetically. "I'll call a cab and head back to campus. Sorry, mate, I'm just exhausted. I said I'd only stay for an hour and it's already been two and a half -"

"I'll see to it that he gets home safely," Sherlock's voice said carelessly from behind John, though if his ears were working correctly John picked up a tone of authority within it that he had not heard before now. "Don't worry, Greg. Get back to the party."

Greg frowned, almost pouting. "Yeah, but -"

"As I said." The edge of warning in Sherlock's voice was startling. "I'll take care of him from here."

The hockey-player's eyes shifted from man to man, attempting to read the situation between them with a drunken, unsteady gaze.

His eyes widened. "Oh, Jesus... fuck, yeah, all right. You... you take care of him then, Sherlock. John, mate..." He shrugged, hands raising to the night sky. "Thanks for coming, yeah? I'll tell John – I mean, Mike -"

"Thank you," Sherlock interrupted, his voice suddenly closer than before, close enough that John could smell a hint of wine, the feel of breath against his hair. Without prior warning Sherlock's hand came to rest lightly on his shoulder, the cold of his skin radiating through the material and making the shorter man shiver slightly as he put the tiniest hint of pressure on it. It was a direction, a hint. "I'll take it from here."

Leaving a gaping Greg standing in the kitchen doorway, John allowed Sherlock to steer him to the other side of the garden and to the small metal gate. The taller man leaned down and unlatched it with a flick of his fingers, a murmur falling from his lips and onto John's shoulder as he did so.

"Don't look back, just keep walking."

The hand still lightly grasping his shoulder and John's mind slowly working away at what his mind was yelling at him, he continued to be led around into a small alleyway until they were safely outside the front of the house. Sherlock's hand was immediately removed, replacing his grip on John's shoulder with a grip on his phone instead as he searched rapidly for the number for a taxi service.

Finally John found himself able to speak the words his brain was hazily shouting.

"You know that Greg probably thinks we're gay now."

Sherlock glanced up, flashing him the tiniest of grins. "I certainly hope so."


	10. Oxygen. And Possibly Dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another super-quick one until later! ^___^ Enjoy!

**Chapter Ten**

John could not say that he was conscious. He was awake, it was true, but the sheer velocity of his headache and the constant desire to drift back into a sleep that tasted of Sambuca and hangover was just too powerful. His mind failed to connect with anything, though for the first time in a long time this was largely down to mitigating circumstances rather than the big black dog: yet another point scored for alcohol. Never before had he considered being hungover as a good thing, but suffice it to say that it was a welcome relief not to feel the crushing weight of nothingness and instead feel the dragging ache of a baby migraine.

Flapping his hand out to the bedside cabinet, he hit the surface until he felt it connect with plastic; wrapping his fingers around his phone was a challenge, but after a few minutes of mild groaning and a few choice swear words he managed to hover the thing over his face and press a button to wake up the screen.

**_3 New Messages_ **

Groaning again, he unlocked the screen and opened his text messaging inbox.

**_Mike:_ **

_Whre did ugo? Greg said u left with his housem88?!!!?_ _Cal_ _me 2moro_

**_Mike:_ **

__Fucking christ my head hurts. Sorry about the text last night, lost grip of the English language. Greg said you were looking pretty cosy with his housemate before you left. You should probably text him before the gay rumours start...!_  
_

**_William:_ **

_Don’t forget to change my name in your phonebook._

_Text me when you wake up._

___SH_  
_ _

__  
__John groaned for the millionth time that morning, dragging his hand down his face and feeling the images of the night before flood back to him. He could remember things in general, blurry detail, though some things stuck out in particular: Sherlock’s intense gaze during his warning about substance abuse; the clapping game; the final shot of Sambuca; Molly and her constant cheek-kissing; Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder; Greg’s face when he thought they were gay – oh god. Oh _god_. The gay rumours really were about to start if John didn’t get a head-start first.

Quickly he opened Sherlock’s message first, tapping to reply and hammering out a response as quickly as possible:

_I'm awake... not necessarily a good choice!!_

Then he opened a fresh text message, choosing his words carefully:

_Thanks for last night mate, was a great one – will definitely come to more of your parties! Lucky Sherlock was there, he was determined to get me home before I passed out! What are friends for, eh? Cheers again Greg, hope to see you again soon._

He barely had a chance to put his phone down when the screen lit up.

**_William:_ **

_Already spoken to Greg about last night; he’s definitely under the impression that there’s something going on, though he didn’t say as such. Easy to read. Didn’t say anything in denial, hope that’s all right._

_I expect you have a rather severe headache?_

_SH_

Why the _hell_ hadn’t he said anything in denial?!

_Sherlock, you do realise that we’re not gay? If you let him run with this the whole bloody university is going to think something’s going on, and believe me when I say that is NOT the sort of rumour I want going around!!_

Pushed into consciousness by Sherlock’s ignorance, John managed to pull enough energy from within him to swing his legs out of bed and groan himself into a standing position; his head swam, alcohol clearly not yet out of his system. He staggered over to the door, taking a quick trip to the toilet before staggering back and leaning himself against the cool sink as he filled a glass with water and drank it down thirstily. He did this three more times before his stomach felt so full and bloated that he could drink no more, then reaching for his toothbrush and starting his morning routine in order to make himself feel more human. As he brushed his teeth he shuffled back over to the bed, plucking his phone from amidst the blankets and reading Sherlock’s latest message:

**_William:_ **

_I’m intrigued as to what sort of rumour you would be pleased about, though not so interested that I want you to explain. Of course I’m well aware of my own sexuality and yours is certainly easy enough to read, I just didn’t see the denial of Greg’s assumption to be an absolute necessity. Now that I know how much you’re aggravated by the idea of our non-existent love-affair coming to light, I shall of course speak to him and assure him that I have no interest in sex with you, or anyone else for that matter._

_A walk would do your head wonders. I’m on campus at_ _3pm_ _for an extra-credit lecture. Meet afterwards?_

_SH_

John rolled his eyes (groaning at the nausea it inspired) and spat the white swirl of toothpaste out into the sink, swilling a mouthful of water and spitting that out too for good measure. Sherlock really was the most ignorant man on the planet, at least about real-life things. Though it was great that the man had no issue with people thinking he was gay, John himself was more than a little uncomfortable at the prospect of people considering him as such – not that he had anything against it, of course. His sister was gay, after all. He just… wasn’t. No point adding fuel to a rumour that had no truth.

_Thanks. I don’t mean to be weird about it, I just don’t want people to start setting me up with their brothers, that’s all!!! And another face-to-face meeting just hours after our last? What happened to the man who doesn’t like seeing people beyond a laptop screen?_

Chucking his phone back onto the bed and pulling open his wardrobe to see what clean clothes he had available to him (slim pickings, he’d really have to do some washing soon), he ended up reluctantly choosing a plain white shirt and a black and grey striped jumper to go over the top – not his usual style at all, but it would have to do when the rest of his options were t-shirts that would drown his small frame, and dirty, probably a bit smelly clothes he really, seriously needed to chuck in the wash.

As he pulled on his jeans and glanced at his reflection in the mirror he suddenly found himself slowing down, staring at the face he had not properly seen in the longest time; it hit him that here he was, certainly still depressed but somehow and suddenly energised enough to actually make the effort to choose clothes that weren’t ill-fitting, weren’t unclean. Not only was he dressing in order to look passable – mustn’t forget the victory that was putting on deodorant – he was actually planning on leaving his room. To _see_ someone. Not just anyone, either – someone who he had so recently detested but, within a few days, had come to view as someone who was far more of a positive influence on his life than a negative one. Though he knew at some point the worm would turn and whatever effect the alcohol was still having on him would dissipate, leaving him back in the grey, he was genuinely almost overwhelmed with how _good_ it felt to be doing something… ordinary. Getting ready to go and meet a friend. _Ordinary_.

Sherlock, however, was as far away from ordinary as John could see.

Pulling himself away from his thoughts, he leaned down and once more picked up his phone – two messages from Sherlock this time:

**_William:_ **

_I understand, John. It can be uncomfortable to be considered homosexual. I am sure you are not alone in that feeling._

_I’m merely meeting up with you for your benefit. You need the oxygen._

**_William:_ **

_And possibly dinner._

* * *

The lecture theatre was completely packed out. John was alternating between casually leaning on the wall outside of the room and subtly trying to see through the sliver of glass but, as of yet, he hadn’t managed to catch a glimpse of Sherlock in the mass of students taking notes. He vaguely remembered short, dark, messy curls from the night before – nothing _close_ to what he had expected – but the majority of students in the class seemed to be girls, only nine or ten men dotted around the room. He was tempted to crack open the door to find out what class it was that Sherlock was taking, pressing his face up against the glass to see if he could read the presentation currently projected onto a giant screen –

And there he was. Not sitting with the students as John had expected, feverishly scribbling notes and gazing up with mild respect at the lecturer, oh no. Sherlock stood, chin tilted slightly up in his trademark show of arrogance and his body held straight and tall behind the giant wooden lectern as his eyes roved the room and lips moved with no doubt reams of relevant information, completely and utterly in control: Sherlock wasn’t _attending_ the lecture, he was bloody _leading_ it.

John swore loudly.

Pale-blue eyes locked onto his.

Throwing himself away from the door and pressing himself flat up against the wall opposite, John breathed out a silent laugh of nervous disbelief. Had Sherlock not thought to mention that he _taught lectures_? Was he dead-set on continuing to surprise his newest friend? First he lived with Greg Lestrade, then he had a different name… now apparently he was a peer of the university, a lecturer in his spare time. What would be next?

Timeshare in Dubai?

Chuckling quietly to himself, John reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone to check the time; he pressed the power button and waited impatiently as his screen took its time to light up before him.

 **_O2_ ** **_UK_ **

**_3:56pm_ **

 

**_1 New_ _Message_ **

**_  
_**Instantly he knew, a half-grin slowly emerging onto his lips.

**_William:_ **

_Really John, I could do without the distraction of you staring at me whilst I’m trying to lecture a class full of students._

_SH_

Without even having a chance to reply, another message appeared:

**_William:_ **

_The swearing is also distracting._

_Not as much as the staring, though._

_SH_


	11. Sociopath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this whilst I was absolutely exhausted, so if it's a pile of poop I'm genuinely sorry! I know it's really short too, but was still tons of fun to write!
> 
> In other news, I took a wander over to Baker Street today after work and bought myself a little tiny violin in a little tiny violin case from the Sherlock Holmes museum. Saw a duck and named it Lestrade. Was a damned good day.
> 
> R&R's appreciated, always!!

**Chapter Eleven**

Sherlock sighed in exasperation, grabbing a roll from the basket and biting off the tiniest chunk imaginable. "There. I've eaten. Happy now?"

Twisting his spaghetti around his fork and pointing towards the plate of untouched food in front of his clearly unmanageable friend, John shook his head. "Sherlock, one bite of bread doesn't make for a meal. I can't believe I even have to tell you this but you've  _got_  to eat your dinner."

"I'm not a child," Sherlock grumbled, pushing the plate away and towards John. "If you want it eaten so much,  _you_  eat it."

"No, no, because that would be completely missing the point," John replied calmly, bringing the sauce-covered mouthful to his lips and scraping it from the fork with his teeth. Slowly he chewed, looking pointedly at Sherlock. "You see? Not difficult."

"Says the man who yesterday only ate a handful of stale cornflakes," muttered the difficult dinner companion, continuing to ignore the food and reaching for his glass of wine instead. "If anyone should be eating their fair share, it's you. You're losing too much weight."

John gently put the fork down and put his hand around his own glass, iced water with lemon. Up until the food had arrived he had been finding it almost too easy to enjoy himself after Sherlock had left the lecture hall; he had of course been berated by the student-lecturer, practically told off for distracting him during teaching, but they'd kept up a steady stream of banter the whole walk around campus. By the time they'd reached a point of silence that couldn't be filled it had started to get dark, leading the curly-haired genius to suggest walking down into Greenwich high street to find somewhere to eat, a suggestion that John had taken him up on despite feeling no real desire to eat. He knew he wasn't fixed, nor was he ready to start making outings on a regular basis, but the day had been such an easy one to enjoy that he hadn't quite wanted to go back to his room and end it until he was absolutely ready to collapse.

They'd come across a little Italian place, the smell of garlic strong and the restaurant itself almost completely empty – Sherlock had given the nod, the two of them ducking into the dimly lit warmth and being taken to a large table more suitable for four and immediately served drinks. Sherlock had ordered a bottle of red wine before John could stop him, his desire to avoid alcohol of all types for at  _least_  a week so strong that he'd almost gagged at the mere scent of it being poured leisurely into a glass. He'd quickly requested a glass of water, earning him a knowing look from Sherlock and a disappointed one from the waiter who clearly was desperate to have them drink enough to make up for the obvious lack of consumers that evening.

There was no idle chit-chat; Sherlock had already made it clear he had no patience for such things, rolling his eyes whenever John mentioned the weather or tried to initiate a conversation about Sherlock's family. Instead they had sat in almost companionable silence, Sherlock occasionally remarking on people walking past the large window overlooking the high street – cutting remarks, usually, smirking depictions of their infidelity, nicotine addictions and general faults and failures. John was fine with this. He was starting to get used to the fact that Sherlock wasn't quite like any friend he'd had before and that the things he said weren't said out of spite or cruelty, merely because they came to mind and he saw no reason to hold back what he was really thinking.

Basically, the man was a sociopath. Sherlock had even said it himself after his fifth scathing comment about a passer-by, almost a tinge of pride in his low tones as he had explained.

"I know how to act of course, it's all easy enough to pick up on simply from watching people – like animals at the zoo." His expression had been completely serious, not seeing a single thing wrong with his analysis. "I could walk up to any single person outside and talk to them without batting an eyelid, it's not a difficult task and one I've undertaken on occasion when it's absolutely necessary to have to do so. It's as easy as anything else."

"But you don't understand it? Don't... feel it? Anything?" John had been genuinely curious, cupping his glass between his hands and staring across the table at his friend intently.

Sherlock had smiled slightly, fleetingly. "Sentiment. It's not something I indulge in."

Nor, apparently, were good table manners. Their food had arrived and had smelled delicious – even John had felt a pang in his stomach at how good it all looked – and yet Sherlock had ignored it completely, turning away from John and staring out of the window as if he had completely forgotten where he was and the fact that he was actually with someone other than the snarky voices in his head. John had waited for Sherlock to bring his attention to the plate of steaming pasta, waiting for some sign that the man had remembered what he was doing... but all Sherlock had done was turn back to John and sigh, leaning his cheek against his hand.

"I'm bored. Let's go and do something else."

From then on it had been one battle after another. After ten minutes of trying to cajole the young man into eating his food (and finding himself faced with a 6ft child) he had instead tried encouraging him to drink his wine, hoping that in the very least a tipsy Sherlock would be an easier one to deal with – a terrible mistake. Not only did Sherlock become increasingly irritating, he also started to pick at John for different things that were absolutely none of his business. First it had been his hair: "You need to get it cut, you're starting to look like a street urchin from the seventies"; it had rapidly moved on to his intelligence: "I'm not saying you're an idiot, John, but one day I'm going to stop tutoring you and you'll have to actually do your work without my constant guidance"; now it had apparently shifted back to his appearance, padded cleverly by Sherlock's apparent concern at his lack of eating.

John dabbed at the his lips with a napkin, determined not to be antagonised. "You aren't my mother, Sherlock, and I'm eating fine."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows pointedly, raking his eyes up and down John's form. "You're wearing jeans you bought three years ago and you think you're fine? You haven't fit into those in a year and a half, John, and within two months you've lost enough weight to find they only just stay up without a belt.  _That_ ," he jabbed his finger towards the shorter man accusingly, "does not signify someone who is eating as much as they should be."

John raised his hand to signal the waiter, ignoring Sherlock. "Yeah, hi, excuse me? Yes, we'd like the bill please."

Sherlock visibly brightened, sitting up straight and bringing his hands together in front of him. "Oh good, are we done here? We could go for a walk up to Greenwich Park, visit the observatory."

Taking the little leather book from the waiter and flipping it open to check the bill, John pulled out his wallet and took out a ten pound note. "It's quarter to eight, the observatory's closed now. You owe twenty," he added, putting the bill down with his ten pounds underneath it. "The wine and your untouched meal, you know."

"Don't be silly, John, I'll get this," Sherlock said with a frown, brushing John's money aside with a flick of his fingers and reaching into his jacket pocket for his wallet. He took out £40 and placed it underneath the bill, slipping his wallet back inside his jacket and pushing his chair back, readying himself to leave. "And I was hardly talking about going in there when it's heaving with people, was I?"

"Just pay your part," John insisted, pushing his £10 back into the middle of the table and standing up, heading towards the door of the restaurant without giving Sherlock a chance to argue. "And if you're implying what I think you're implying you can bloody well forget it."

He pushed open the door and stepped out onto the cold street, glancing both ways up the high street. He slipped his jacket on but left the buttons undone, slipping his hands into his pockets as he waited for Sherlock to follow him out into the darkness.

The deep voice came from right behind him, making him jump. "It's so much more fun to do it my way."

It took John a moment to realise that Sherlock was referring to the observatory. He started to walk, knowing the tall pain in his arse would follow. "It's called  _breaking and entering,_  Sherlock, and it's a crime. I don't know if it's on your to-do list to get arrested by the time you graduate for what I assume is the tenth time running, but it's not on mine. I'll walk you back to your place and get a cab back to campus from there."

Sherlock caught up quickly, falling into his long and graceful stride at John's left-hand side. "You've never seen anything quite like it, John. It's a wonderful place to explore after opening hours."

"No," John replied firmly, stopping at traffic lights and looking either way before making a quick walk to the other side. "I'm going to walk you home, call a cab, get back to my room and sleep for at least ten hours. God knows I'm exhausted, think the alcohol is finally totally out of my system..."

"It's been out of your system for three hours now, you've just been too distracted to notice," his friend said, infinitely distracted himself. "Come on, a nice jaunty walk up to the park, break into the observatory, have a bit of a wander and then we can make our way back down! We can even get coffee on the way home if you'd like," he offered in apparent generosity, opening his hands wide to signify his genuine intent to provide hot drinks."I'll pay. I'll pay for your cab back too, if you come with me now."

John stopped in the middle of a path, hands still deep in his pockets. "Why are you so intent on my breaking into the observatory with you?"

Sherlock walked a few steps further ahead, only stopping when he realised that John wasn't immediately following. "You ask like it's a bad thing."

"No, not bad," John allowed, tilting his head to one side and trying to read the odd man, "just a bit... a bit weird. Do you really have nothing better to do with your time than break into famous landmarks?"

Sherlock was by his side again in two short strides, reaching out and grabbing John firmly by the arms and giving him a small shake. "It's  _Saturday_ , John.  _Saturday!_ " His eyes were determined, wholly fixated on John's own confused stare. "Saturday is when it  _happens_!"

"Wh..." John shook his head, wishing not for the first time that Sherlock would just bloody make sense without needing a translation. "What happens? What are you talking about?"

Sherlock's face suddenly widened into a huge grin, his grip tightening even more on John's arms as he gave him one final, resounding shake. "Life, John! Life itself!" Suddenly he was moving closer, so close that John could smell the wine on his breath, feel the warmth of the taller man's every exhale ruffling the top of his hair; Sherlock's face came within inches of his, leaning down slightly until he was perfectly at eye-level. "Let me show you how I live it!"

Leaning back slightly but somehow managing to fight the urge to claw Sherlock's tight grasp from around his arms, heart thumping a little erratically at the sudden burst of adrenaline that shot through his system, he forced himself to meet Sherlock's intense, somewhat manic stare with his own calm, steady one. He saw the mania in the man's face, saw his desperation and he found he could not turn away from it, couldn't back away. With an inward sigh and a not-so-inward curse, he finally nodded.

"All right. I'll come. But," he quickly said, raising a finger in the air, "only if you promise to stop acting like a child. And next time actually eat some of your dinner."

Sherlock released him, giving him a sharp, emphatic nod. "Deal. A very fair deal."

John shook his head, changing direction to start heading towards the park. "You really are hard work, you know that?"

The man fell into step by his side, large hands shoved into his pockets as his shoulders raised in a casual shrug. "But you're here, aren't you? That has to mean I'm doing something right."


	12. Fear & Enjoyment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **My favourite chapter so far, hands down. So much freaking fun to write! :D ENJOY! Love to all who have reviewed so far, you're bloody fantastic!**

**Chapter Twelve**

John glanced around him warily, all too conscious of the people walking by, all of whom could very easily figure out what was going on behind him. "Sherlock, if I haven't said this already I think this is a  _terrible_  idea which will probably lead to a criminal record that I  _genuinely_ don't want to have." He stamped his feet nervously, glancing back at his companion. "Can we please just give up and go home?"

A muttered 'damn' and the tiny sound of a lock being jimmied. "They've changed the locks since last time, this bloody thing won't go in -"

"I'm serious, we're going to end up getting found out and I  _know_  that you'll find some way to avoid getting caught and it'll just be me getting arrested and charged with breaking and entering." He glanced back over his shoulder at Sherlock, watching the man's face twist into frustration. "Why don't we just come back when it's open?"

"Don't be an idiot, John, that completely defeats the point of this."

John turned fully towards Sherlock, shoving his hands roughly in his pockets. "And what exactly  _is_  the point of this, if you're not too distracted breaking into a listed building to answer?"

Sherlock sighed, pausing his criminal activity for a few moments. "The point of this is to do something you wouldn't usually do. Now will you be quiet and continue to keep a lookout? Contrary to popular belief," he began fiddling with the locks again before darting off around to climb behind some shrubbery, "I don't want to add to my arrest sheet."

"Fine," John muttered, turning away only to turn back a moment later with a frown. "Hang on, add to your arrest sheet? _Add_  to it?"

"Another story for another day," Sherlock's voice came from somewhere behind a bush. "I  _think_  I might have found a window..." The squeak of old, possibly damp wood filled the air between them. "Yes!" Sherlock hissed, suddenly popping out from behind the large bush. "Come on John, into the fray!"

Swearing under his breath, John strode over to where Sherlock had suddenly vanished again, following the sound to see a window half-open and a leg disappearing into the darkness within the old building. "Sherlock, I'm asking one more time -"

"John, quick, someone's coming!"

Eyes widening and mind unable to keep up, John shoved past the shrubbery and gripped the ledge of the windowsill, throwing his leg over into the open window and throwing his body weight into the empty space inside; he fell through gracelessly, staggering as he dragged his other leg through and finding himself quite without balance as he reached out into the dark room for something to grab onto -

A pair of hands grabbed him by the arms, dragging him further into the room and behind a large piece of equipment he could barely see. The hands kept hold of him and steadied him, pushing him against whatever he was now hiding behind and gripping him tightly as John's breathing hitched unsteadily in his throat. A familiar scent washed over him as the slightly rough material of the long coat Sherlock had been wearing scratched lightly against his cheek, the sound of someone else breathing steadily close to him settling in the whorl of his ears; he was suddenly aware of the proximity of the body close to him and the heat it was emitting, both reassuring and alarming as he attempted to calm his breathing and slow his racing heart, a seemingly impossible task.

Adrenaline pumped through him like a drug. "Sherlock, what -"

"Shh." The noise was far too close to his ear for comfort, the breath warm against his cool skin. He felt Sherlock shift, hands loosening their grip on his arms and eventually letting go despite him still remaining almost pressed against the smaller man. When Sherlock spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. "There's a security guard out in the hall."

John swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry and palms beginning to sweat. He tried to match Sherlock's volume. "If the person you saw is  _in here_ , why didn't you just come back outside?"

"And ruin all the fun?" There was a breathy laugh, still too loud in the empty darkness; the body so close to John's moved away slightly as Sherlock seemed to lean around the large equipment to check the guard's whereabouts. "Don't be silly."

They stayed still in the darkness for a few moments longer, John eventually regaining a somewhat steady heartbeat and and regulating his breathing back to normal; the buzz of the adrenaline continued though, his entire body seeming to shake from it. "Sherlock -"

The body suddenly moved away completely, stepping back and to the side. With a little distance between them John could see Sherlock's face bathed in what moonlight managed to fall through the open window, that same mania from before glittering in his icy eyes which were now turned towards him, the tiniest of grins playing on his lips. "There. He's gone."

John shook his head, head turning to glance around himself. "This is mad. You are  _mad_."

"Oh please, you've never felt better," Sherlock said triumphantly, tilting his chin up as he raked his eyes over his friend. "Look at you, you're the epitome of 'jacked up' just from climbing through a window."

"That's  _fear_  Sherlock, not enjoyment!"

"Liar." Sherlock turned away from him, walking slowly to the edge of the room to where glass cases stood in a row, pictures and documents behind them waiting to be read. "Elevated heart-rate, dilated pupils, rapid breathing -"

"All symptoms of  _fear_." John followed quietly behind the taller man, glancing edgily around him.

"And enjoyment," Sherlock replied in a low voice, his fingers reaching out and brushing against the glass. "Don't deny it, you feel more alive right now than you have since you started university. Possibly even before."

John rolled his eyes. "Fear."

" _Enjoyment._ "

"Fine," John gave up, raising his hands in defeat, "I'm enjoying myself. Happy?"

Sherlock shot him sidelong glance, eyes narrowed. "Smile, then."

Forcing his signature 'I'm depressed but pretending I'm fine' smile, John held his arms open wide as he displayed himself for the demanding genius. "There, is that better?"

"Barely." Sherlock turned away from him, striding towards the other side of the room. "Come on, we've got more rooms to break into."

Exasperated, John watched his friend walk purposefully away before giving in and following him, wondering if this would be the way it would always be – Sherlock would always be right, and John would always follow.

**-X-**

Leaning over, breathing so laboured he could see stars and could hear only of the sound of maniacal laughter beside him, John shook his head slowly and deliberately from side to side, face hot and the cold air doing nothing to cool him down. "Fucking  _hell_  Sherlock... fucking hell!"

"Your face," Sherlock laughed, body spasming in laughter as he leaned himself against a tree and tilted his head back to rest against the solid bark. "Your face is  _fantastic!_  I wish you could've seen yourself."

"How the hell did you get away?" John was gasping for air, wondering how the idiot was still standing after their mad dash from the observatory. "He was twice your size, he had you in a headlock -"

Sherlock grinned, eyes directed to the sky above them. "Experience, far too much experience. Did you really think we were caught?"

John looked up at him, radiating disbelief. "Are you joking? We  _were_  caught, they saw our faces! They... Sherlock, one of them  _had you in a bloody headlock!"_

"Oh, only for a bit..."

"You're a madman and a psychopath," John breathed, forcing himself to stand up straight as his entire body shook with the sheer effort of doing so. "And I am  _never_  going along with one of your plans again, never ever  _ever_  again."

Sherlock pushed himself off of the tree and glanced down at him, grin slowly getting smaller until it was a simple tilt of his lips. "Yes you will. And it's sociopath, not psychopath. There's a very pronounced difference."

"You're still a madman."

"True," Sherlock allowed, eyes glancing around them at the near-empty park. "But it was still the most fun you've had all year."

John shook his head again, pressing a hand to his chest. "No, that would be the third night I was here, back at Sally Donovan's flat. Don't underrate a night of limited conversation and sex."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, frowning as he let this information work its way through his brain. "Sally Donovan? You had sex with Sally Donovan?"

"Yeah."

"Sally Donovan as in first year physical education degree Sally Donovan?"

John rolled his eyes, resting his hands on his hips and taking in one last deep breath as his lungs finally began to adapt. "That would be her. Why, do you know her?"

Sherlock's nose wrinkled in disgust. "I know enough of her to know she's far and away from being good enough for you."

A laugh slipped from John's throat. "It's not like she was my girlfriend, Sherlock, it was just one night."

"Is that your taste, then? Girls with a superiority complex?"

The tone of Sherlock's voice was greatly amusing to John. He grinned. "Like I said, conversation was limited."

"That doesn't answer my question."

Looking properly at Sherlock, John realised that the man was genuinely asking, genuinely curious despite his obvious aversion to discussing such topics. He thought about it for a moment. "Well, it was less about personality and more about what she looked like. She had nice hair."

"Frizzy," Sherlock muttered, shifting from one foot to another. "Rough to the touch."

John couldn't help it; he looked to Sherlock's own mess of curls, raising an eyebrow. "You're one to talk. As for superiority complex, well, pot calling the -"

"Yes yes, I'm a black pot, I know," Sherlock cut across irritably, eyes flashing. "And my hair isn't rough or frizzy, thank you very much, not that it matters."

"Well, I guess that means you're not my type then," John teased with a grin; he couldn't swear to it, but there was a definite twitch to Sherlock's lips that could have almost been a smile. "Really, Sherlock, it was one night of sex and never hearing from each other again. Meaningless."

Sherlock began to walk, his pace leisurely, talking despite no longer facing John. "It surprises me."

John fell naturally into step beside him, legs still slightly weak from the insane run he'd done just minutes earlier. "What does?"

"That you would choose to have sex with someone who doesn't mean anything to you. You don't strike me as the type to indulge in one-night affairs with strange women."

John shrugged. "It wasn't like I've done it before... it just seemed like it didn't matter so much, being at university and everything. It's not something I'd usually do, it was just that the opportunity arose and I... took it."

Sherlock's head turned slightly; John could feel his eyes on him, the infamous x-ray vision setting turned on maximum. "Was she... you know."

He genuinely didn't. "Was she what? Good?"

"No!" Sherlock made a small noise of repulsion, waving the word away with his hand. "Please, don't bore me with those details."

"Then...?"

"Was she your... first?"

"My first? Oh..." The meaning sunk in; John cleared his throat, uncomfortable. "I don't really... is that really something you want to know?"

Sherlock's eyes flitted away. "I assume it's not the sort of question I'm supposed to ask, then."

"No, it's all right, it's just..." John hesitated, his shoulders rising slightly against both the cold and the topic of conversation. "It's fine. No, Sally wasn't my first."

"I see. So she was your rebound."

"Ye- hang on, how do you know that?" John stopped, realising the stupidity of the question. "Don't bother answering, I forgot that you know everything about me."

Sherlock stopped too, turning his body slightly towards him. "It was an easy deduction. Your tone upon my bringing it up was quiet, pained. You frowned, even if momentarily, and your fists clenched in your pockets despite it being a relatively innocuous question. Clearly you don't like to talk about it because the other person you've slept with most likely broke up with you, probably just before you started at university."

 _Fucking genius bastard._  "You... are  _far_  too observant."

"A child could have worked it out."

John shook his head. "I really hope not."

Sherlock smiled slightly, starting to walk again, indicating with his head that John should follow – as if there was any doubt that he would. "So your actual type is more likely the exact opposite of Sally Donovan. Fair hair, perhaps blue but more likely green eyes, pale skin, likely to have been younger than you -"

"I wish you wouldn't do that," John mumbled, the very image of Sarah popping up behind his eyes at Sherlock's bang-on description. "You're too good at it."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "My apologies."

John looked up at him, face unreadable but tone genuinely sorry. "Don't worry about it. It was a long time ago."

"Not that long," Sherlock disagreed quietly. "Or not long enough that you're feeling...  _better_  about it."

"Why would you say that?"

"Because you still look like you're suffering simply from talking about her." Sherlock stopped in his tracks again, his gaze suddenly so intense and focused on John that even if Sherlock  _hadn't_  stopped walking John would have had to simply to recover. "Is she the reason you have depression?"

Staring at him, John's tongue darted out from between his lips, the soft skin suddenly dry. "No. I was fine until two months ago, you know that already."

"But it doesn't help."

The laugh that barked from John's throat was humourless, flat. "In case you haven't noticed, Sherlock,  _nothing_ helps."

Sherlock's expression flickered, momentarily torn between his usual solemn expression and something John couldn't quite define; before he had a chance to decide quite what it was, Sherlock had started walking again, eyes back on their path. "Of course. How stupid of me."

"No, wait -" John realised what he had said too late, inwardly cursing, "- I didn't mean  _nothing -_ "

"I understand perfectly well what you were saying, John, there's no need to explain."

"Yes there is," John insisted, a strange weight unfurling in his chest and weighing far too heavy for comfort; he took two quick steps towards the taller man and reached out without thinking, grabbing the edge of Sherlock's sleeve between cold fingers and curling the material into his palm. Sherlock stopped instantly, head turning and eyes darting down to where John's fingers were now grasped before flickering back up to meet John's intent gaze. "There's every reason to explain. I didn't mean it like that."

Sherlock stayed silent, his eyes boring into John's. It made him feel as if his mouth was suddenly full of cotton – dry, useless. He swallowed thickly, knowing he should drop the subject and the sleeve but unwilling to let go of either.

"You must know... you must have an  _inkling_  of... come  _on_."

Slowly Sherlock turned his slender body completely towards John, eyes remaining fixed on his face, unreadable; as he moved, the direction he had turned altered the position of both of their hands, Sherlock's warm and curled fingers brushing lightly against John's cold wrist and dragging from the smaller man's throat a sharp intake of breath and the tiniest jerk of surprise. The ice-blue eyes travelled lower once more, taking in John's hand on his coat for a few moments before raising them back to rest levelly against the gaze that John could not break.

The intensity was alarming, out of place, yet still John did not let go of the sleeve. His hand felt frozen, the combination of Sherlock's stare and the tiny warmth resting against his wrist temporarily stealing all vocabulary though his mind continued to whirr.

_Let go of him! Neither of you are comfortable touching and YOU started it!_

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly, almost as if he could hear John's thoughts; this did not stop the thoughts from continuing to shout, belligerent.

_You've made your point, he's stopped walking – let... go... of... the... SLEEVE!_

"John."

Sherlock's deep voice broke through his reverie like hot water; almost as if his vocal chords had unlocked, John's voice burst out into the darkness with words he had actually not been thinking at all:

"You're the  _only_  thing that isn't  _nothing_  to me right now."

Sherlock's gaze burned, silent as he let the words settle between them. "You don't need to say that."

"But it's true," John pressed, fist clenching tighter over the material briefly, the warmth of Sherlock's fingers retreating as he did so. "You were right earlier – well, not that I need to tell you that, you know everything that there ever was to know, but... yeah. You were absolutely right, it was the most fun I've had. All year." Finally he managed to pull his hand away, almost as if the words of truth had released the impossible grip on the rough material and allowed him to break free of the awkward intensity. "Not even a naked Sally Donovan made my heart race, lungs ache or... palms  _sweat_  as much as you did earlier." John looked up at Sherlock with his trademark half-smile, shaking his head back and forth in muted disbelief. "All that, just from breaking into a bloody building. What the hell have I got myself into with you?"

The air around them was quiet for a moment, the words settling around them and adding yet more substance to the foundation of their friendship – it was almost visible, stone walls and solid ground. Sherlock gave a small nod, gesturing with his hand that they should walk again; the mere action of this sent the atmosphere falling from intense to casual once again without a single beat missed, the beginning of a pattern neither of them could see coming. "I can't say I ever expected to hear you say those words either. Or anyone, for that matter."

Falling into a somewhat uneven step beside Sherlock's taller form, John took his words and decided now was the time, if any, to ask. "So you haven't...?"

"Never."

"Oh." Even though it had been the answer John had been expecting, it was still somewhat strange to have the definitive answer. "Out of choice, or...?"

Sherlock sighed, his breath coming out in a cloud of white. "If by choice you mean never having had the desire to attempt finding someone even relatively suitable for me then, yes, it's a choice."

"So..." John considered his words carefully, unsure of how to phrase something he wasn't even sure he wanted to say. "You haven't ever... wanted to?"

"It's not exactly high on my list of priorities. If I wanted to experience the symptoms of sexual excitement I'd just... well. I don't know. Break into a highly guarded building, perhaps."

John closed his eyes, fighting the grin that wanted to break out onto his cold face. "Okay, I hate to disappoint you but they really  _aren't_  the same thing, Sherlock. You can't even compare the two. Sex is... yeah, no comparison. Sex wins. Criminal activity... doesn't quite cut it."

Sherlock shot him a sidelong glance, raising an eyebrow.

"Most fun you've had all year?"

"...oh, bugger."

"Precisely."


	13. Marigold Court, Flat Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bleh.

**Chapter Thirteen**

John understood. He really did.

How often had he spent nights avoiding phone calls, texts, emails? There were the earlier days of depression where he'd spend time with Mike and Molly and Greg, perfectly fine, but once the sun had risen once more and he was forced awake by biology and sunshine he would find himself utterly unable to reach out to a single one of them and would hide himself away in the darkness of his room to recover from the mere effort of being with the people who genuinely liked him. There were, of course, the weeks where he would completely go without seeing anyone at all, curled up in a ball on his bed with only the empty space above his head to talk to – when he spoke at all. That in itself, during a day of nothing, was a miracle.

This, however, wasn't him. The issue wasn't John. The issue, much to his growing edginess, was Sherlock.

He'd been warned, of course; Sherlock had made sure right at the beginning that John knew how it might be, that he could disappear for days and not contact him, but an entire _week_? At first John had been fine, leaving him to it, refraining from texting after lack of reply to his first couple of attempts to get in touch – though their circumstances weren't the same he was still willing to be understanding about a bit of distance. He'd had a few bad days himself, back to his old routine of not leaving his room and staring blankly at the wall with a thousand unidentifiable thoughts rolling around his mind and not thinking once of his newest friend... but a week. A whole WEEK.

He tried not to think too hard about the fact that he was already missing the influence of the curly-haired genius.

As he sat there on the eighth day, wearing a fresh hoodie (because he had literally found no clean clothes by the fifth day) and ratty jeans, he actually started to worry. So he picked up his phone, hesitating only for a moment, before calling him.

_Ring ring..._

_Ring ring..._

_Ring ring..._

_Ring -_

"Sherlock Holmes' phone."

A male voice, one he didn't recognise. He brought his phone away from his face, staring at it in confusion.

"Hello?"

He brought it back to his ear. "Um... hello."

"Oh, bravo, you  _can_  speak English."

The voice was well-spoken, higher in pitch than Sherlock's. "Er, yes. Um... may I speak to Sherlock, please?"

A pause. "I'm afraid he's not available to come to the phone at the moment."

Not available? "Can I ask who I'm speaking to?"

"You may," the voice said, "but the more important question, I believe, is  _who_  are  _you_?"

John's jaw stiffened. "Someone who'd quite like to speak with Sherlock. Is there a reason he's unavailable or...?"

Another pause. "Ah.  _You're_  the one."

"I'm sorry?"

"The self-diagnosed depressive pre-medical student.  _John Watson_ , I presume?"

At this he sat up a little straighter, frowning. "Sorry to be rude, but, who the hell exactly are you?"

A small laugh. "I see your powers of deduction are no better than he described. Pity. Very well, if we must do introductions – my name is Mycroft Holmes. I am Sherlock's... brother, and keeper, apparently."

John's eyebrows shot up into his messy fringe. "His brother? You mean the brother he hates?"

The silence this time was not one of hesitation but one clearly of disdain. "Though it comes to no surprise to me that he should refer to me that way, I do wish he would at least try to remain civil. Regardless, yes, that is who I am. And you are, as we have already established, John Watson -"

"Self-diagnised depressive pre-med student, right," John interrupted, making no effort to hide his irritation. "Glad to know that you both put aside your squabble long enough to talk about my personal life."

"Oh, I assure you, he was most reluctant to divulge anything at all."

John couldn't even wrap his head around this. "But you managed to get it out of him, clearly. Look, can I just talk to him, make sure he's all right?"

"Like I said," the voice said, the tiniest smidge of irritation coming through, "he is currently unavailable to talk to anyone."

Sighing in exasperation, John found himself standing in the middle of the room, ready to start pacing at any moment. "Well, what, is he ill? Drunk? In the middle of shagging someone?"

The laugh that came from his phone was altogether different from the last, full of mirth. "Oh, dear heavens, Sherlock in bed with someone... let's not make too many jokes in one sitting, John, we don't want to wear ourselves out! But perhaps the former, that he's ill... yes, that's most the most likely choice."

It was almost like he was trying to wind John up – and it was working. "Well, is he ill or not? It's not a difficult question."

"You  _do_  have a short fuse, don't you?" Mycroft sounded mildly amused by the idea. "My brother is currently in bed at three o'clock in the afternoon, does that answer your question?"

Gritting his teeth, John decided that he'd had enough. He'd bloody well go down there. He strode towards the shoes discarded by the door, stuffing a foot in roughly. "Forget it. I'll find out for myself."

Instantly Mycroft's tone changed, an authority and edge to it which hadn't been there before. "I don't think that you will, John."

"Don't worry, I'll be there in fifteen minutes – I'm sure we'll get a chance to argue it out then." John leaned over and grabbed his keys from his desk, slamming his hand on the door handle and pulling it open. "Feel free to bugger off before I get there."

"Stay where you are, John."

"No bloody way."

"I said," the voice was now almost deadly quiet, enough to stop John in his tracks, " _stay where you are_."

It was difficult to fight his instincts; every muscle in his body screamed to keep walking, to ignore the soft-spoken voice on the end of the phone and walk – no, screw it, get a cab – to 221 Well Place, burst in through the door and punch Mycroft Holmes in the face. And check on Sherlock. The latter was obviously more important despite his growing frustration. Something, however, made him turn and walk back into his room. The door slammed behind him.

"Very good. I can see why he likes you, you follow instructions so well."

John closed his eyes, trying as hard as he could to fight the red pulsing across his vision. "If he'd told you anything substantial about me you'd know that's not quite true."

"My brother is a complicated soul, John," Mycroft said stiffly, ignoring his comment entirely. "He doesn't  _have_ friends. The closest he has to a friend is that ridiculous idiot Gregory Lestrade, and even he is merely involved to be of use to me."

His head was beginning to hurt. "Of use to you, what do you mean by that?"

"It's not an important detail." Mycroft cleared his throat. "Regardless, I would recommend that you heed these words, John Watson, irrespective of what you think of me: do not, if you value yourself, get involved with Sherlock Holmes. It would only be of detriment to you."

John had to swallow thickly twice before he was able to get the words out without punctuating them with a colourful array of swear-words. "So far nothing could be further from the truth."

"Sentiment will only get the both of you hurt, and believe me when I say that I would go to any lengths to ensure that my brother escapes that burden."

Placing his hand against the wall John pushed against it has hard as he could, determined not to react and happy to take it out on the furniture around him if necessary. "I assume that means you think I'm going to hurt him, hm? You think I don't... value him?"

"Quite the contrary, John," Mycroft's voice was as steady as ever, "you're a depressive who is leaning on Sherlock for emotional support whilst side-lining the rest of your social group. Clearly you value him more than anyone else close at hand."

"Now you're just making it sound like I'm using him -"

"Aren't you? It would be perfectly understandable; after all, he's using you." He did not wait for John to question it. "A boy like him embarking on a friendship with a depressive, an easy way to ensure he always has the upper hand - he knows you'll always be too grateful to let go of him, too sentimental in your thanks to abandon him. He's found everything he needs in you, John – that is, someone who simply cannot possibly function without him."

John did not hold back; his fist went into the wall, all of the nothingness he'd been feeling all day disappearing as the anger flooded through his veins, pain a welcome by-product of his emotion. His voice in comparison was disturbingly calm. "Now, I know I haven't known Sherlock as long as you have. I admit that. Okay? I admit that. But what I do know -" He breathed in and out heavily through his nose for a moment, far too close to losing his grip, " - what I do know is that Sherlock,  _my_ Sherlock -" John broke off again, head spinning at his own phrasing - "is a self-diagnosed bloody sociopath _,_ and if he's even  _slightly_  right about that then what you just said to me is complete and utter... bollocks.  _Bollocks_. A sociopath wouldn't want someone hanging onto them like a leech. A sociopath wouldn't want someone obsessively hanging on to their every word, movement, whim. Sociopaths want space, have no patience for – as you put it –  _sentiment_." He was so close to losing it, too close. "I refuse to believe that Sherlock is using me merely to boost his own ego or whatever it is that you're getting at. He doesn't want that,  _I_  don't want that."

"So where, exactly, does that leave us?" He was almost sympathetic. It made John's blood boil. "He doesn't hold onto you for sentiment or for – as  _you_  put it – an ego boost. So why  _is_  my brother embarking on this odd little fray into friendship with someone so, forgive me but, ordinary?"

John's jaw set, tensed so hard he could barely speak. "Maybe he's sick of his only company being a self-satisfied, smug git."

"I see we're beyond pleasantries."

"You think?" John bit his lip, so hard it almost broke the skin. "I think this conversation is over."

"I would imagine you're right. I'm sure you have plenty of... sleeping to be getting on with."

John hit 'End Call' and threw the phone across the room.

**-X-**

His phone went off at 12:15am, waking him from a restless sleep; he shot up, almost smashing his hand into the wall as he flipped himself over and reached for it. His stomach jolted as the  _1 New Message_  and the name directly under it – he unlocked his phone and brought it close to his face, eyes scanning the few words feverishly.

_**William:** _

_Can you talk?_

_SH_

His fingers went to work instantly, a quick and easy response that he didn't even need to think about.

_Yes. Want me to call?_

He waited, unable to take his eyes off of his phone or let it fall from his hands. He tapped his thumb nail impatiently against the screen, laughing dryly at the sheer ridiculousness of his impatience when he had only just sent the message -

_**William:** _

_No. Come and let me in._

_SH_

Ridiculous. He didn't know which accommodation building John was in, let alone the flat number.

_Very funny. I'm calling you now._

_**William:** _

_Marigold Court, flat three._

_Let me in._

John's eyebrows shot up, throwing down his phone and leaping off of the bed, wrenching open his door and not caring as it slammed shut behind him and most likely woke up the other five students in his flat; how many times had he been woken up by loud sex and arguments since he moved in here? It was their turn to suffer. Hopefully not for the same reasons.

He recognised the silhouette behind the frosted glass before he'd even unlocked and yanked open the door.

"Sherlock, what -"

His words trailed off into the darkness. Sherlock's face was impossibly pale, eyes glazed over and hair a complete mess; rather than his usual shirt-and-tight-trousers routine he was wearing a dark grey long-sleeved polo shirt and – my god, were they  _jeans_? Faded, well-worn  _jeans_?! John forced himself to look away, trying not to feel uncomfortable in the mere presence of Sherlock wearing  _Converse_ , his eyes travelling back up to Sherlock's odd expression and noting the slight sheen of sweat shining on his skin – wait, why was he sweating? It was only about six degrees Celsius outside and the man wasn't even wearing a coat, just the polo shirt and the jeans, nothing protecting him from the chilly night air. Even with the long sleeves... it was insane. John's eyes narrowed, darting back up to Sherlock's face.

 _Something_  wasn't right.

"Sherlock..."

"Can I come in, John?" His voice seemed no different, perhaps a little slower, softer; the man looked so unwell that John stepped aside instantly, gesturing for him to come in, eyes following his movements as concern rested heavily on his shoulders.

"Room five," he called quietly, gently pushing the flat door closed and clicking the lock back into place as silently as he possibly could. He quickly followed the tall shape of his friend, glancing around him as he went to make sure there were no spying eyes – he knew for a fact that were any of his flatmates to see him welcoming a man they'd never seen before into his room at this time of the night... well, the rumours. Greg wouldn't be the only one spreading them.

Confident he was not being watched, John slid into his room and quickly shut the heavy door. He turned.

Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed, staring at him.

"Sherlock... are you... all right?"


	14. Food Poisoning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo sleepy... hope you enjoy! ^_^ Thank you endlessly for you comments, can't even put into words how much they mean to me!

**Chapter** **Fourteen**

Sherlock looked up at him with hazy eyes, his arms wrapped tightly around himself as if he were cold; the light was still off in his bedroom (as usual) but John was almost certain that the man was shaking. When Sherlock spoke, however, his voice was incredibly soft and calm. "I'm fine, John. A touch of food poisoning, nothing more." John watched as the genius's large hands began to rub up and down his arms, ice-blue eyes starting to dart around the small room. "Your room is very bare."

"Have you been to a doctor?" John stepped over a pair of jeans he'd discarded on the floor earlier, sitting on the desk chair opposite Sherlock and taking in the man's appearance with a concerned frown. "You look terrible."

"I'm surprised you can even see how I look with the lack of light in here; do you always spend your nights by laptop-light?"

John got out of his chair immediately, heading over to the light switch. "Sorry, I don't tend to put the lights on -"

"No," Sherlock interjected quickly, leaning back as if trying to get further away from the switch, "leave it off. I would... prefer it to be dark."

Bringing his hand slowly down from the little plastic square, John looked at him for a moment. His mind started to race over possibilities, narrowing down Sherlock's obvious symptoms and pulling a diagnosis from the air, disregarding it and starting over – food poisoning, gastroenteritis, anemia, flu, stress -

"Stop that," Sherlock interrupted his thought process, a tiny smile playing on his lips. "I don't need you to diagnose me,  _Dr. Watson._ It's food poisoning. I'll be fine in no time."

John slowly made his way back over to his friend, perching on the edge of the desk chair and looking at him closely. " _Have_  you been to a doctor?"

"I assure you, Mycroft is more than capable of diagnosing me; he's a better physician than any nearby, believe me."

"Mycroft," John muttered, rolling his eyes. "I had the pleasure of speaking to him today."

Sherlock's tiny smile vanished, eyes focusing blankly on the sink in the corner.. "Yes, I overheard quite clearly. It seems that you two didn't quite get on."

"Not sure there's a single person on this earth who could honestly say that they  _get on_  with Mycroft Holmes," said John gruffly, leaning back on the chair and folding his arms. "I can't say I've ever had the misfortune to speak to a more unpleasant human being."

Sherlock nodded slowly, fingers wrapping themselves over his upper arms and gripping himself tightly. John did not miss it. "He's possibly even more antisocial than I am."

"Impossible," John joked lightly, giving his friend a little smile. "I have to admit, though, I  _do_  have some questions for you when you're feeling a little better -"

"Anything I told him was not without a fight." Sherlock could not meet John's eyes, constantly shifting his gaze around the room. "I was... unwell at the time. He has ways of knowing who I'm talking to and isn't afraid to push me for answers when I'm perhaps more vulnerable to coercion than usual."

There was nothing about that explanation that John liked. "The more I hear about your brother the more inclined I am to hate him, Sherlock."

"I know," Sherlock said quietly. "But if you can help it, please try not to."

Surprise flitted across John's gentle expression, completely shocked by Sherlock's request. Hadn't Sherlock insulted his brother to kingdom come just a week ago? "I would have thought -"

"Forget about Mycroft," Sherlock cut across him, tone suddenly testy. His hands gripped his arms tighter, tips of his fingers going white. "He is entirely unimportant. If and when I wish to discuss him I will bring it up in conversation, but until then I would very much prefer if you could just let it go."

John bit back his irritation and forced himself to nod, knowing this wasn't the time or the place though determined that one day it would be and one day Sherlock would have to respond to his many questions. "All right. We'll move on."

"Thank you." Sherlock's low voice was barely a murmur. "I'm sorry to be a pain, John, but do you think I could have a glass of water? Suddenly I feel a little..."

"Say no more," John said confidently, pushing himself back up off of the chair and stepping over the jeans once more to get to the sink. "You're in capable hands here, I'm practically a doctor."

"Mm," Sherlock hummed from behind him, the tiniest hint of amusement seeping through, "I'll have to take your word for it."

Running the water for a few seconds first to make sure it was cold enough, John rinsed out the glass he usually used at night and filled it halfway, holding it carefully as he made his way back to his pale friend. "Here." He handed it over, Sherlock's fingers wrapping around his momentarily as he took it; he watched as the young man's eyelids closed momentarily, the strangest look passing over his face almost as if he were savouring the sensation – yes, something clearly wasn't right with him if that was his reaction to the touch of another person. For the sake of Sherlock's comfort he allowed the physical contact without flinching, holding his hand still upon the glass and underneath the clammy skin of his friend and waited until he felt the pressure of a grip.

Slowly Sherlock lifted the glass to his lips, eyes still closed as he took a small sip. "Thank you."

John nodded, settling back down on the chair. "No problem. Just make sure you don't drink it too fast, all right? If it  _is_  food poisoning -"

"It is."

" - then you don't want to overload your stomach too quickly. Don't want an explosion from either end..." John watched as another tiny smile found its way onto Sherlock's lips, though the effort behind it was painfully obvious. Whatever was wrong with him – and John was almost certain it wasn't food poisoning – it was making him feel absolutely terrible. "Sherlock..."

"Please, John." Sherlock's tone was no longer soft; it suddenly had an edge, an irritability that somehow stretched beyond what it should have been. "I appreciate that you are just... being... a  _friend_... but I would be very much obliged if you were to simply let it go. I know exactly what you're thinking and I'm sure it's out of the goodness of your heart just as it is with Mycroft, not that I'm certain he even  _has_  one -"

"Wait a second," John interrupted, frowning, "I don't think comparing me to Mycroft is exactly  _accurate_ , do you?"

"Just stop questioning me, all right?" Quiet again, the edge subtle. "I can barely focus on keeping my body upright let alone have to deal with you constantly doubting and questioning me... my head  _aches..._ "

"All right." John fought to keep his voice as quiet as Sherlock's. "All right. Your head hurts. Do you have a fever?" He leaned forward, moving his hand until it was hovering over Sherlock's sweat-covered forehead, not quite touching him. "Do you mind if I...?"

"Do whatever," Sherlock replied curtly, his tone still low, body still tense. "If it'll stop you from staring at me like I'm a dying puppy."

Rolling his eyes to the ceiling and doing nothing to hide it from Sherlock's unseeing eyes, John gently pressed his palm to his friend's forehead – it was cool, clammy to the touch certainly but no sign of a fever. "Well... you don't have a fever."

" _I_  could have told you that."

Taking his hand back, John sighed. "I wish you'd stop lying to me about the food poisoning, though, I just want to help -"

John could not miss the way Sherlock's entire body began to shake at his words, hand dangerously unsteady on the glass – he reached forward to take it before there was an accident of sorts, fingers outstretched and just brushing the glass before Sherlock's left hand shot out without warning and whacked it out of the way, taking no care to be gentle. Their flesh connected with a sharp 'slap', John's eyes widening first in surprise and then instinctual anger, Sherlock's snapping open and fixing in all their intensity on his friend's face – the expression on his face was shockingly raw, his limbs into trembling waves.

John stood rapidly, fists clenching as his heart began to thump hard beneath his chest. "I was just trying to  _help_  you, Sherlock, there was absolutely no need for you to do that – you can take that look off of your face for..." His voice trailed off as Sherlock too forced himself into a standing position, taller, far more threatening simply in height than John could ever be. "All right, calm down - sit back down -"

"I can handle myself," Sherlock practically growled, his grip on the glass turning his knuckles white, "I don't need you to pity me, John Watson."

The irrationality was so startling that for a few seconds John could do nothing but stare. "Sherlock, what the  _hell_...?"

"Stop looking at me like I'm out of control, I am  _perfectly_  in control of myself -"

"Yeah, you're doing a great job of convincing me," John said weakly, stepping back and almost falling over the chair. "Sherlock, I know you're feeling like... well, like shit, but you need to sit back down and  _think_  about this for a moment."

Sherlock leaned over, slamming the glass on the bedside table with a loud SMACK and instantly turning back to his friend with, to John's surprise, fists quite as clenched as his own. "How can I think? How can I think when my mind is full of... of  _nonsense_ , of nothing, of thoughts I can't even grasp hold of whilst my body is so needlessly rejecting itself?" His hands reached up, grabbing his own arms again so tightly that John could see the intents on his skin where the fingertips were digging in. "I thought it would all right to come here, that you would somehow  _help_  me, but of course you can't help me, an utterly ridiculous notion that someone like you could help someone like me -"

His words were like blows. John knew, his head telling him quite loudly, that Sherlock was clearly not in his right mind and was beyond irrational at that moment, but the fact that he was essentially saying the things that John himself had been considering these last few days – that one day Sherlock would wake up and realise that John was, as Mycroft had said so correctly, too ordinary to waste his time on – was just a little too close to home for comfort.

"Mycroft was clearly right, as he always bloody is; we're unsuitable for each other – two emotionally unstable young adults leaning on each other when neither of us have any real experience of..." Sherlock trailed off, eyes suddenly flicking up to John's. He did not continue, changing his tack as if he had not been speaking at all. "I cannot have you pitying me, John. It is absolutely unnecessary,  _utterly_  ridiculous."

It took a few moments – too long underneath a silence so full of tension – for John to find his voice, still reeling from Sherlock's tirade to be able to properly articulate himself. "I don't... that came out of nowhere, I wasn't pitying you -"

"Your eyes are full of it," Sherlock said through gritted teeth, eyes still blazing but body beginning to wilt in exhaustion, "and it makes me feel sick. It makes me feel  _weak_."

Without meaning to, John found himself collapsing into the chair behind him – it had all escalated so quickly he could barely catch his breath. "Fucking hell, Sherlock. Sit down."

"I -"

" _Sit down or I'm going to call your brother and tell him exactly where you are._ "

Silence. John waited with wavering patience until Sherlock slowly sat.

"If you let yourself get riled up like that it's going to take you twice as long to get better, all right?" It was difficult to keep his voice steady, still angrily bewildered by how quickly things had become... heated, with no reason to explain other than Sherlock's foray into irrationality – again, no explanation for that either. "Tell me why you came here when clearly you're in no fit state to see  _anyone_."

Sherlock's eyes were closed once more, body slack as he sat unmoving opposite his friend. "I told you why."

"No, what you did was went off on one and had quite a bit of fun throwing insults around whilst essentially losing your shit like a child." John's jaw was tight, the words a struggle. He was determined to be patient, at least until Sherlock wasn't so 'unwell'. "A clear explanation with as few insults as possible would be... helpful."

Sherlock opened his eyes very slightly, eyes hidden beneath long eyelashes. "If you'll cast your mind back -"

"I want  _you_  to tell me  _now_."

Sighing, Sherlock moved his head forward gradually until it came to rest on his hands; to John it was a sign of defeat, a sign of giving up. He felt no victory, though, as the man spoke in low, dragging tones. "I thought...  _stupidly -_ "

"Sherlock."

"Fine,  _fine_ , have it your way..." Sherlock groaned into his hands, body still clearly tense. "I thought that you perhaps be able to...  _help_  me. Distract me."

John watched his friend closely, eyes narrowed. "Distract you from what? Help you with what?"

"My head, John... it aches..."

"I know, keep drinking your water."

"No," Sherlock dissented, head lifting and eyes swivelling until they focused, unseeing, on John's chin. "My head  _aches_. I can't concentrate, can't focus, can't think of anything beyond how heavy it feels, how sluggish my body is whilst trying to fight off the constant, pulsing desperation for..." He broke off, eyes darting up momentarily to John's and back down to his chin. "I have want of something, John, something which apparently I cannot have and the sheer lack of it is tearing my body apart and turning me into an irrational, angry, shaking  _wreck_ of a man."

"Christ," John laughed weakly, "please tell me you're not talking about  _someone_  as opposed to  _something_?"

A look of pure Sherlockian disgust crossed the genius's pale face, allowing his eyes to meet John's so that the man opposite him could see just how ridiculous he found his question. "Don't be absurd, John. I can only take so much stupid from you at one time."

It was so incessantly  _Sherlock_  that, rather than rolling his eyes or taking offence to what was clearly  _not_  a compliment, John found himself with a grin twitching at the edge of his lips and a spark of relief just making a brief appearance in his chest.  _Yep,_  he thought to himself wryly,  _this is one hell of an unhealthy friendship._  "Sorry, should've realised. So, uh... what's this thing you want so badly, if it's not a person...?"

Sherlock spoke as if John hadn't spoken. "So I came to you in the hope of a distraction, something to take my mind off of... it. Of course, I realise now that I was asking too much of you. You are, after all, so very -"

"Ordinary." John's voice was undeniably bitter, the sound of it making even himself intensely uncomfortable; the acute, keen gaze he found himself locked in as Sherlock's eyes shifted to his only made it more so.

"I was going to say  _human._ "

"Same thing."

The two young men stared at one other within the confines of the dark room, the dim light of the laptop reflecting in their eyes and making each other's faces so discouragingly difficult to read, to analyse; John struggled more than Sherlock to read people at the best of times but now, in the lacklustre light and with so much confusion and misunderstanding between them, he could not read a damned thing on the face of his clearly suffering friend. Sherlock's mind, as disappointing to his master as it apparently was right now, was blatantly whirring away and attempting to read John just as much as he was trying to read Sherlock; John could see it in the ice-blue eyes currently turned his way, the way in which they were flitting from both of John's eyes to his hands to his feet and back up to check his eyes again... it was exhausting simply to watch it, and John found himself not for the first time in awe of this man who called himself his friend.

It was impossible. Even without his depression John was too ordinary for a man like Sherlock Holmes.

When Sherlock did finally break the silence his voice was exasperated, impossibly quiet. "Must we always have a moment in every social occasion during which one of us doubts their place in the other's life?"

"I didn't say that I  _was_  doubting it, I just meant -"

"I know what you meant and you're being ridiculous."

They stared at each other again. John waited a few beats before remembering he had been trying to get an explanation. "So what is it, Sherlock? This thing you want? Is it why you're feeling so... well..." He gestured towards his friend, frowning. "You know. This."

"Irrational. Nauseated. Shaky. Weak. Anxious."

John's brain began to tick. "Y...es..."

"I have food poisoning, John," Sherlock said evenly, even as a huge tremble seemed to shake him from shoulders to feet in one giant wave. "Remember?"

John's eyes were solemn as they flickered over Sherlock's face, searching. "No, no... you want something, you're in need of something -"

"To be well again is what I want," Sherlock said with a tiny smile, folding his arms and holding his body still as best as he could, the edge back to his voice. "Nothing more than that."

Shaking his head, John found himself leaning forward until he was resting his arms on his knees, raking his intent gaze over his friend as his mind began to turn, turn, turn. "No one describes the pains of wanting something as much as you clearly do without there being more to it than just the desire to be well again, Sherlock. You're trying to tell me something but you won't tell me outright. Why?"

For the first time since John had met Sherlock Holmes, uncertainty crossed the taller man's face. "I was just rambling, John, I'm not in my right mind. I'm ill."

"Yes, you are," John murmured, a distinctly horrible realisation starting to edge its way into his head. "Sherlock... have you take-"

_Riiiiiiiiiing!_

_Riiiiiiiiiing!_

_Riiiiiiiiiing!_

_Riiiiiiiiiing!_

Slowly Sherlock tore his eyes from John's and fell to the pocket of his jeans. His long fingers slowly wriggled their way into the tight material to pull the plastic device from its trappings, bringing it up to his face and glaring at it in a way that instantly gave away the caller.

"Mycroft?"

Sherlock nodded, expression blank. "Greg must have gone to check on me and found me missing."

His phone stopped ringing; John's began. Disbelief crossing his face, John looked down at the caller ID and let out a humourless laugh. "07995346-"

"I didn't give him your number."

"I didn't think you had."

The two of them looked at each other for a moment, John's unspoken question from before floating between them; Mycroft's call rang out, silence flooding the dark room, yet neither of them seemed to be able to find the motivation to speak again.

**-X-**

Greg had opened the door and was striding out of the house the minute Mycroft's car pulled up, hands raised. "I'm sorry Mycroft, I went in at eleven and he was sleeping, went in ten minutes ago and he -"

"There's no need for an explanation, Gregory," Mycroft said, face impassive as he slammed his door shut and walked up to where the younger man stood, "I understand that you cannot be watching him at all times. I assume he didn't leave a note?"

"Yeah right," Greg snorted, pulling out his phone. "Sent him a text but no answer. D'you think he went to his dealer?"

Mycroft pulled out his phone and selected his younger brother's number once more, pressing 'Call' and not bothering to bring it to his ear as it rang; seven rings later and it went to voicemail. "Oh, I doubt it very much. Sherlock may indeed ardently want his fix, but he knows I would have already dealt with his source. He's not a fool."

Greg stared at Mycroft, open-mouthed. "So where d'you think he's gone? Want me to get some of my mates here, look around town?"

A tight smile cracked on Mycroft's lips. "I think that would lead to more harm than help, don't you? If he's looking for it elsewhere he'll have his ears to the ground, contacts to warn him of people asking after him. He's far too...  _resourceful_ to get caught by just anybody."

Sighing, Greg turned around on the spot and shrugged dramatically. "Well what then? It's not like he has friends to go to!" He froze, eyes wide as he stared at nothing in particular. "Well, unless -"

"My thoughts precisely," Mycroft murmured, scrolling through his phone and finding John Watson's number, stored there a week ago. "Let's go to his next likely addiction, shall we?"


	15. Now More Than Ever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WAHOOOOO, NEW CHAPTERRRR!! :D

** Chapter Fifteen **

 

Half an hour later, John found himself watching Sherlock’s sleeping form.

 He had not asked Sherlock the question lingering on the tip of his tongue – in the end he had not wanted to, though whether it was to spare Sherlock the feelings that would accompany such a confession or to save himself from having to hear the answer he did not know. They had simply sat in the quiet, occasionally meeting one another’s gaze as they waited for the inevitable cavalry to arrive – preserving the quiet for as long as possible. Both of them knew that, after this, things would not be as simple (as if they were simple before) and that something would change; neither of them knew what or how and it was an unspoken agreement not to discuss it, but either way, the silence was welcome.

 Eventually Sherlock had started to rock from side to side, his body barely holding himself up; his eyes fluttered closed, his hands stopped gripping his arms quite so tight.

 “Sherlock,” John said softly, watching as the hazy blue eyes slowly opened and found his, “why don’t you lie down?”

 “No,” Sherlock murmured back, shaking his head languidly back and forth. “No, I... shouldn’t sleep. I’ll have to be ready for when Mycroft gets here.”

 “I’ll wake you up when he gets here,” John reassured him, gesturing towards his pillow. “Go on and lie down, you look about ready to pass out. Get some rest.”

 Sherlock had forced himself to focus on John for a moment, almost as if he was trying to read his friend but failing miserably in the fog of whatever was working its way out of his system. “You’ll wake me up?”

 “I promise. As soon as he calls me to let me know he’s here, I’ll wake you up.”

 Without further question, Sherlock had simply let his body fall to the side, eyes closing instantly; it didn’t look particularly comfortable but John wasn’t going to attempt to make him move now, not after so quickly winning a battle. As John stood to quietly cross the room to get a blanket from his wardrobe, Sherlock’s sleep-heavy voice floated across the space between them. “I warn you, I’m horrible when I first wake up.”

 A grin flitted across John’s face, turning for a moment to look down at his half-unconscious friend. “No change there, then.”

 Now, fifteen minutes later, watching Sherlock sleep was the only thing John felt capable of doing.

 The man had started his slumber curled up, arms brought into his chest and knees bent – not altogether dissimilar to how John now slept; it was a protective stance, a way of shielding himself from anything that was to come his way. It was almost uncomfortable to see his friend doing the very same thing and introduced a vulnerability in Sherlock that John had not seen before now. Eventually, however, his body had uncurled and opened out, rolling over onto his back and throwing am arm out to the side so that it dangled over the carpet like a branch from a tree, head still lowered so that his chin just came short of brushing his shoulder; he breathed long, deep breaths, occasionally so slow and deep that John could not stop his body from leaning forward slightly, a frown creasing his forehead as he waited for Sherlock’s breathing to even out properly again.

 He’d never felt like this before, really. John had _had_ friends of course, close friends – Mike being his best friend for years now – but over the past two weeks he had found himself slowly pushing aside the haze of depression purposefully to fit in a piece of something that was not himself, a piece that was a little jagged and didn’t seem at first likely to fit in the gap he had managed to carve out, but now… now it was as if it had always been there. He had felt things in the last two weeks that he had not felt with Mike or any of his other friends regardless of what they were doing, irrespective of how much alcohol they’d consumed or how much fun they’d managed to compile in one evening.

 He recalled the rush of the week previous upon hearing Sherlock’s voice fill his empty bedroom from his laptop, deep and mocking; he remembered vividly the way his stomach had tightened and body frozen at the mere sound of the voice in person, tension exploding within himself as he’d turned around and met the intense gaze of the man who was supposed to have been nothing more than an academic tutor; the walk they’d taken around campus, talking of the party and medicine and nothing even remotely personal; dinner at the cosy Italian restaurant with wine and water and a clever, irritating, changeable childlike version of Sherlock; the heat of adrenaline pumping through John’s body as he climbed through a window; the feel of a rough coat against his cheek and surprisingly strong hands on his arms as Sherlock dragged him into hiding to avoid being caught by a security guard; the look of fierce jubilance on Sherlock’s face as he’d slipped out of a headlock and grabbed John’s wrist, yanking him towards the open window and throwing himself out of it and John practically falling through it; the mad dash across the park with laughter and swearing and stumbling until finally they’d stood gasping for breath whilst overlooking Canary Wharf… and the conversation that had followed, the foundations for their friendship hardening into stone and mortar.

 Staring down at the man he’d known for barely two weeks, John found himself sighing, fingers playing idly with the large pocket of his hoodie. Something had been irrevocably changed in his life, he knew, but _exactly_ what… well, he had no idea.

 There was a soft knock at the door.

 “Hmmwhassat?” Sherlock’s voice mumbled sleepily through the darkness, still clearly at least half-unconscious; John looked at him for one moment more before he quietly made his way over to his bedroom door, sliding back the lock and pulling it open, the light from the hallway spilling in painfully bright – he squinted out at the two currently indiscernible shapes and forced his eyes to adjust.

 “I believe you have something of mine.”

 Mycroft Holmes was tall, maybe even slightly taller than his younger brother. His misty-blue eyes and dark brown hair were oddly flat in John’s eyes, lacking most if not all of the sparkle and dynamical energy of Sherlock’s own features… in fact, they looked absolutely _nothing_ alike. The closest that John could find to align the older Holmes brother with the younger was the arrogant tilt of his chin and the steely determination of his stare which, now, was focused wholly on John himself.

 He met the look head-on, determined not to be stared down by this man who he still kind-of-definitely wanted to punch in the face. “Why don’t we start with hello and work our way around to who belongs to whom, hm?”

 Greg Lestrade – ah, their living arrangement was beginning to make some sense – lingered behind Mycroft awkwardly, hands in his pockets as he shrugged helplessly towards John with a ‘what can I do?’ look that John very much understood; if Greg was under the thumb of _this_ Holmes brother, he more than understood why he remained two steps behind, silent. John grimaced at him just as Mycroft took a step forward.

 “There is a time and a place for this conversation, John, and it is _not_ now.” The man refrained from touching John, simply standing just a little too close and looking down at him over his rather expansive nose. “My brother is unwell and he should be at home where he can be properly… looked after.”

 “And by that I assume you mean _watched_ ,” John said flatly, folding his arms and shifting to block the view into his room. “He’s actually sleeping right now, so maybe you’d like to come back in the morning to pick him up. Or, y’know, I could just walk him home. The fresh air would probably do him a world of good.”

 Mycroft’s eyes narrowed slightly as he refined the information given, his gaze flickering momentarily in the direction of the bed and back down to John; his lips twisted into an odd half-smile. “Sleeping! I see. Do you and my brother often spend the night in each other’s beds?”

 John tilted his chin up, his attitude the very reflection of the man currently dozing in his bedroom. “I’d say that’s none of your business, actually.”

 “How interesting,” Mycroft murmured to himself, eyes back to searching in the darkness behind John for his brother. “Well, as much as I appreciate your, ah, _hospitality_ to my brother, it perhaps would be more prudent if I were to take him home with myself and Gregory now.” John did not miss the eye-roll and silently mouthed ‘GREG’ from the young man standing behind Mycroft; a smile slipped on his lips, something that Mycroft clearly took to be directed at him as any hint of friendliness slipped away. “Let me be clear: I am taking Sherlock with me now and I would strongly advise that you do not impede my path.”

 John’s arms fell to his sides, standing as straight as he possibly could. “I’m sorry, is that a threat?”

 Mycroft’s lips tugged into a humourless smile. “Oh, let’s not go down this path, John. There’s no need for us to be unpleasant to one another.”

 “Bit late for that.”

 As Mycroft opened his mouth to retort with what would have surely been yet another softly-spoken threat, a drowsy voice called out from the darkness beyond them.

 “John? Who are you talking to?”

 He turned instinctively, realising too late that this left enough room for a person to slip by him – he cursed none too quietly as Mycroft breezed past him, his perfectly laundered suit, shining shoes and upper-class air in embarrassingly stark contrast to the bare, magnolia mess of his bedroom. He saw Sherlock’s eyes open to half their usual size as Mycroft strode into the room (Greg awkwardly wandering to the threshold behind him) with what John assumed to be his usual show of authority, the tall thirty-something year old man standing over the bed and looking over his younger brother with an odd look on his face.

 Unsurprisingly, his tone was brisk.

 “Come now, Sherlock – time to go home.”

 Sherlock stared up at his brother from his sprawled out position on John’s bed, his eyes like slits. “I was sleeping before you got here. _Thanks_ for that.”

 “Well, how reassuring to know that even if you can’t sleep in your _own_ bed you can manage perfectly well in John’s.” The twisted grimace was back; it looked almost as if his brain had forgotten quite _how_ to smile, his lips half-committed to it but the rest of his face remained impassive to the idea. “Regardless, you’re awake now! We can get you home and you can resume your rest in your own bed.”

 Sherlock’s gaze flashed to John. “I’m not finished here, Mycroft.”

 John’s eyes widened, mind instantly connecting with the obvious implication; at the tiniest of winks from Sherlock, however, he kept his mouth shut and simply waited for a response.

 Greg’s mouth fell open.

 “Enough,” Mycroft said sharply, looking from John to Sherlock with a frown so deep it looked as it would leave a permanent mark on his forehead. “This isn’t a game, Sherlock, and you shouldn’t be here. Your… recovery…” He quickly glanced at John again. “Your recovery process isn’t over yet. You can resume your _activities_ once you’re back to your usual form.”

 Pushing himself up onto an elbow, Sherlock looked to John once more; his face was still deathly pale and John could see from the slight tremble in the arm supporting him that he was not at all feeling back to his ‘usual form’, yet the tiny smile that flickered on the man’s lips was 100% Sherlock and was clearly intended to make John fully aware that his ‘game’ was not yet over. “John’s very capable, _brother mine_ … he has… hmm… _healing hands_.”

 John fought every instinct in his body in order to keep quiet – seeing Greg’s astounded gaze flit between the two of them made this exceptionally difficult, knowing that not only was Sherlock’s ‘game’ having an effect on Mycroft but also Sherlock’s housemate. He bound himself to the spot, however, keeping his jaw firmly locked as he waited for Sherlock to finish torturing his brother.

 Mycroft seemed to sense his reticence instantly. “John, would you kindly tell my brother to stop this ridiculous display? This is not the place for him at this moment in time, surely you can see that?”

 Oh, god. He looked to Sherlock in panic, eyes wide, but the only response he got was a tiny nod of confidence – his friend’s eyes, tired as they were, clearly encouraged him to continue his ‘game’. John breathed in deeply before turning himself back to Mycroft, forcing his shoulders into what he hoped was a casual shrug. “Sorry, Mycroft. You, uh… interrupted us at a bad time.”

 “Oh, for goodness sake,” Mycroft snapped, throwing his head back in pure frustration. “Must I deal with this now? Can neither of you see that I am requesting this change of venue purely out of necessity? Sherlock, you simply cannot stay here. I’m well aware that John probably hasn’t the _slightest_ idea of why you came here tonight and if you really must insist on making this difficult I’ll be forced to -”

 “I know why he’s here,” John interrupted, tone every bit as sharp as Mycroft’s; he watched as Mycroft’s blue eyes shot through him, attempting his brother’s little x-ray trick and… yes, there it was. Realisation that John was, in fact, telling the truth. “And I _can_ take care of him if this is where he wants to be, I’m more than capable. I’m not going to force him to leave just because you want him to, even if it _is_ in his best interests. I don’t know if you know your brother at all, Mycroft, but he’s not the easiest man in the world to say no to.”

 Sherlock’s gaze darted between the two of them, his body shaking from the effort of holding himself up but too involved in their conversation to change it. John was unsure, but he could have sworn that he saw the tiniest hint of first disbelief and then, unimaginably, fear flit like a wayward bird across his face. He saw Sherlock’s periwinkle eyes move slowly up to look deeply into John’s own honest, open gaze and saw, as clearly as his own reflection, the genius’s realisation much like his brother’s that John had every idea of what was really going on.

 His eyes closed momentarily.

 Mycroft sighed, seeing this exchange and raising his hands in defeat. “I see that I’m powerless against this, then; so, John - ” he eyed the young man closely, disappointment radiating from the stare, “ – you are truly inclined to ignore my warning from earlier today, I take it? Even now?”

 John turned, walking over to the edge of the bed where Sherlock still half-lay with his eyes closed, looking down at his friend and waiting for his presence to be acknowledged; slowly Sherlock allowed his eyes to open once more, though he did not raise his gaze to meet John’s and simply stared at Mycroft’s trouser-leg. Hesitating, every former instinct he had ever felt to hold back being pushed aside for this single moment of absolute importance, John moved his hand until it rested gently on Sherlock’s shoulder and then turned back once more to face Mycroft.

“Now more than ever.”

**-X-**

 

 _“You really shouldn’t let him get too carried away, Sherlock,” Mycroft called up the stairs after him, his tone speaking of John the way he had once spoken of Redbeard all those years ago, “you know he’s only going to end up getting hurt. You_ both _are.”_

_Having had plenty of years practice in feigning ignorance of his older brother’s existence, Sherlock forced his feet to drag him all the way into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him with the slams of every adolescent fit of rage echoing in his ears as he collapsed in utter exhaustion on the bed he had left near on two hours ago. He had no need to glance around to see that his drawers had been emptied, mattress been inspected, all remnants of his addiction removed – Mycroft had even threatened to confiscate his phone, though the utter absurdity and uselessness of the task would have just been a complete waste of the older brother’s time; Sherlock was far from an idiot. He would find ways to contact John just as he had found ways to find the heroin._

_But then, which addiction would Mycroft be fighting against now? Which did he think Sherlock was more likely to succumb to?_

_He should have stayed with John._

_Laying back on his perfectly made bed and staring up at the ceiling in above him, his mind still prancing a merry dance of impossibilities and improbabilities against the fog that still wrapped itself around his every thought, Sherlock thought of John._

_Why had he not turned away when he had every opportunity to?_

_Still, he wouldn’t sleep tonight. He would have all night to figure it out._

 

**-X-**

 

Laying back on his messily unmade bed and staring up at the ceiling above him, his mind threatening to submerge itself into the usual blankness and smog, John thought of Sherlock.

Why did he let him leave with Mycroft?

Still, he had an entire night’s sleep to toss and turn to. Maybe his dreams would help him figure it out.


	16. Tea Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's been so long; lots going on, some health stuff, you know how it is. Anyway, here's an update for you - more to come tomorrow! ^_^ Lots of love and hugs, guys, thanks so much for being patient.

**Chapter Sixteen**

After Sherlock had pushed himself wordlessly from John's bed and literally left the room without saying a word, Mycroft curtly nodding to John in farewell and Greg simply shrugging again in bewilderment, John had found himself standing in the middle of his room without a single idea of what the heck he was supposed to do next.

All in all, John was a calm, centred young adult. Yes, he was depressed – though these last two weeks had made it so up-and-down that he wasn't really sure what was going on with that part of his life – but generally he was very much in control of his emotions, somewhat open-minded to other people and by and large a non-judgemental person. He had managed to light the flame of his and Sherlock's friendship despite the genius being frustrating, arrogant and continuously prone to thoughtlessness; he'd broken into a building with the man just to please him, after all. Not that John  _hadn't_  got something out of it, of course – he couldn't easily forget the rush, the exhilaration, and he owed that admittedly exciting, distracting night to Sherlock. So, yes. John was open-minded enough to break the law for his friend.

Or, more likely, crazy enough.

Now, however, there was more than just John's depression and Sherlock's unpredictability to deal with, and it was such a  _big_  thing that John couldn't even sleep on it to better prepare himself for the next morning. He'd stayed awake for hours just staring at the ceiling, staring at his phone screen, staring at the laptop, his mind darting between increasingly confusing thoughts until finally he'd sat up, shoved his feet into the trainers cast untidily next to his bed and gave up trying to think of anything whilst cooped up in a room that might as well have been a prison cell.

He walked further than he meant to; the cold, fresh air was so wonderfully soothing against his skin, the antidote to the sluggish processes of his mind. He kept his legs moving, hands shoved deep into his pockets and head kept down so as to keep the chilly breeze from stinging his eyes, not really concentrating on where he was going but not caring enough to map out a route for himself. It wasn't like there were many people around to distract or bother him and he had nowhere he had to be the next day, so the fact that it was – he glanced at his watch – 2:30am made no difference to him. By the time he finally stopped walking, slightly breathless, he found himself overlooking the lights of Canary Wharf and in exactly the same place he'd been just a few days ago with the young man who was now irrevocably etched in his mind.

The truth was, he couldn't  _not_  think about Sherlock.

So, his new friend had a drug addiction. He felt as if he should be surprised, shocked even, yet he was now so used to not allowing himself to be surprised by anything that Sherlock did that it just seemed... fitting? It made no sense to see it that way - who would guess that anyone as incredibly intelligent and dedicated to his work as Sherlock Holmes would have an addiction to a possibly illegal substance? But it was true, obvious even, that there was still much he didn't know about the genius who had turned his life upside down, and despite knowing it was wrong of him to think this way, regardless of how utterly inappropriate it was to feel the way he did when the man was clearly struggling... somehow it made John even more...  _involved_. It made him want to crack the man open from top to bottom and see every little dark detail and know every tiny blemish that marked him.

It was becoming increasingly obvious that their relationship was not what most people would consider healthy.

He pulled out his phone without even thinking about it, too edgy and too impatient to stop himself, thumbs hammering out a message and sending it in less than a minute:

_I don't know why you took whatever you've taken or how you reached a point where it seemed like the right thing to do, but I'm going to help you. Don't ask me why. I couldn't tell you even if I knew. Your arsehole of a brother won't stop me, either._

In hindsight, he shouldn't have been surprised:

* * *

_**Mycroft Holmes:** _

_Your loyalty to my brother is admirable, if not possibly misplaced. I think you and I need to have a conversation and I think it should be now, don't you?_

_M. Holmes_

* * *

John grimaced, texting back quickly.

_Maybe that's a good idea. Where should I meet you?_

Less than a minute later:

* * *

_**Mycroft Holmes:** _

_I assume I don't need to provide you with his address._

_M. Holmes_

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, John rapped his knuckles lightly on the door of 221 Well Place and waited.

The door opened, Greg's tired face peering round the corner.

"John, mate." He opened the door wide, stepping back to allow him the space to walk through. "Sherlock's sleeping, don't think he's really up for visitors -"

"Not to worry, Gregory, he's not here for Sherlock. Or perhaps he is," Mycroft said, coming out of the living room and giving John a small smile, "but rather we need to sit down and have a little talk first." He gestured into the room he'd just left, standing so straight and tall that John had a fierce desire to look behind the man to see if there was a stick shoved up a certain orifice. "Shall we? You too, Gregory."

"Greg," Greg muttered, but still he shut the door after John and followed the two of them into the warm, cosy living room and sat himself down on one of the old, worn- looking leather sofas. Mycroft sat in a large, mismatched leather armchair and waited for John to settle next to Greg, watching as John awkwardly shifted and eventually stilled.

"So. Here we are."

John nodded stiffly. "What did you want to say to me?"

"Skipping the pleasantries again. Hm. No matter," Mycroft said with another small, unreadable smile, settling himself back and crossing his legs gracefully, "I merely wanted to see how you were doing after our little situation this evening."

"I assume you're referring to your brother coming to me whilst coming down from whatever drug he's been taking?" John didn't even blink, so calm he felt. "I feel fine. Fantastic."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "Quite. Though you are wrong about that, he was already, ah,  _down_  from his illegal high. He's been going 'cold turkey' for the last two days, as it happens."

"Right. And, if it's all right for me to ask, what sort of  _illegal high_  did he take?"

Greg shifted uncomfortably beside him; Mycroft simply gazed at John without a flicker of emotion as he replied, completely matter-of-fact: "Heroin."

John blinked. He'd been thinking cocaine, maybe something vaguely hallucinogenic – not something as rapidly life-destroying as  _heroin_. "I..." He cleared his throat, frowning. "Are you sure?"

"I can bring him down here and show you his arms if you'd like," Mycroft said breezily, continuing to stare at him in a way that made John feel remarkably exposed. "Yes, John, my brother has a taste for opiates. Absolutely ghastly when he needs to take any form of pain medication, he's built up such a resistance to them."

John's mouth fell open, hardly believing what he was hearing. "I'm sorry, did you really just refer to his heroin addiction and the  _ghastliness_  of not being able to take paracetamol?" He turned and glanced at Greg; even he looked completely nonplussed about the whole thing. "Am I missing something?"

"No," Mycroft said, tone still conversational. "Mr. Lestrade is well-versed in Sherlock's habits. The Lestrade's are friends of the family, Gregory here grew up with us. He's how we realised that Sherlock wasn't, in fact, an idiot."

None of this made sense. "You... right, so... Greg, you're Sherlock's... friend?"

"Well..." Greg hesitated, looking briefly at Mycroft. "He doesn't really have friends, does he? I mean, you and he are..." He broke off, suddenly looking intensely uncomfortable. "Well, until now he never really had anyone he could call a friend, exactly."

"Nonsense, Gregory, I'm sure Sherlock considers you the very best of chums," Mycroft said, clearly amused at the idea. "Or at the very least he puts up with you and doesn't complain about it too often. I'd say that's friendship, or the closest approximation of it – well, as you say. Until John."

A piece of information he had forgotten suddenly came trickling back into his head – Sherlock at Greg's party, wryly informing Greg that as he lived rent-free in their home that he would definitely have to pay him back every single penny for the alcohol he had just fetched. John slowly nodded to himself. "Right, so that's why." He turned to Greg. "You get to live here rent free and in exchange you keep an eye on Sherlock?"

Greg looked at Mycroft again before looking back at John with a small nod; there was an odd look in his eyes, something very close to guilt. "I mean, it's not that I don't care or that I wouldn't do it anyway. Like Mycroft said, we've known each other since we were kids. Even if I'm not exactly a friend, that's only because Sherlock just doesn't interact with people like anyone else – well, until -"

"Yes, me, I know," John said impatiently. He didn't miss the ghost of a smile on Mycroft's face. "But obviously it's not a fool-proof system. He managed to do it this time – take the drugs, I mean."

The guilt in Greg's eyes intensified. "I didn't see any of the usual warning signs." He turned to John properly. "He gets quiet, quieter than usual, spends a lot of time in his room. He leaves the room whenever I walk in. He's edgy, not vocally but physically, pacing a lot and muttering to himself. There have always been signs in the past, I've always been able to get word to Mycroft before something happens but this time there  _were_  no warning signs. I came home early after my lecturer didn't turn up one day and his bedroom door was closed – it's  _never_  closed unless he's sleeping," he stressed, fingers splayed out as he made his point, "and I guess my instincts just kicked in. I opened the door and he was just sitting against the wall, all the stuff around him and he was just staring in front of him. At nothing." Greg turned away again, looking at Mycroft. "I swear, there were no warning signs this time. If there had been -"

"Clearly something about this time was different," Mycroft interrupted, giving Greg an almost reassuring nod before shooting a piercing stare directly into John's narrowed eyes. "I'm sure you can see where I'm going with this."

Oh yes. He bloody well saw. "You think it's my fault." He gritted his teeth. "You're blaming me."

"Oh, heavens no!" Mycroft's eyes widened, leaning back slightly in his apparent shock at such a suggestion. "No, that is not at all what I'm suggesting. Quite the contrary – for the first time in his life Sherlock has seemingly  _chosen_  someone to spend his time with. You have to understand, John, any playmates or acquaintances in my brother's life have been there merely out of circumstance or necessity. This is... the first time I've ever known him to choose to interact with someone. More to the point, that particular someone has chosen to interact with him and seemingly _enjoys_  that interaction."

John was almost too far beyond comprehension to bother trying to understand. "Right. So... what exactly is your point?"

Mycroft suddenly stood, ramrod straight and instantly with his back turned to both Greg and John; he faced the bay window, staring out at the empty and dark street whilst allowing John to sit stewing for an infuriatingly long time. It wasn't until Greg cleared his throat for the third time that Mycroft finally spoke.

"Never before has Sherlock so readily agreed to stop taking opiates." He half-turned, not quite looking at John but clearly directing his words towards him. "One mention. That was all it took."

John frowned. "One mention? One mention of what?"

Mycroft rotated slowly on the spot, pivoting in such an elegant way that John would have sworn against his mother's own life that he had taken at least one dancing lesson in his lifetime. When the man spoke, his voice was very soft, eyes betraying a flash of amusement. "You. Gregory mentioned your name once. He went to his bed and crawled underneath the covers without a further moment of fuss."

John sat perfectly still as he attempted to process the information. Mycroft seemed to take this a sign to continue.

"My brother, you see, never does it just once. He's no better than the rest of them after the first prick of the needle, seeking it out constantly, forming a habit – he functions far better than most addicts, of course, but it has been known to crack before. He has been known to... break. I mean it, though: if it is in his possession, he will inject it."

John nodded mutely.

"Upon searching his room, we found enough of a supply to last him at least two weeks."

Subconsciously John's eyes drifted up to look at the ceiling above him, wondering if Sherlock could hear their conversation.

"Yet here we are, days after his first and last high in a fair number of months and not once has he attempted to get more. Not once has he begged for something to ease his desire for the drug. My brother has no need for self-control most of the time, John, but when it comes to this habit of his... well. Self-control goes out of the metaphorical window, shall we say."

Greg finally spoke up, a welcome interlude to Mycroft's refined tones.

"You're the only thing that's different that we can think of," he explained to the still-overwhelmed John who still had his eyes fixed on the ceiling. "Nothing else has changed. Add to that the fact that he hasn't argued once about going cold turkey since I mentioned the idea of your reaction to a drug habit -"

"Not to mention him dragging himself to your college accommodation whilst probably suffering from rather severe exhaustion," Mycroft intercepted, raising an eyebrow in John's direction. "It's all rather... interesting. I confess of course that before seeing him in your room, your bed specifically -" John cringed but said nothing, unsure if Sherlock still wanted him to go along with the insinuation that they were more than friends, " - I was very much under the impression that you were a dangerous addition to his life, that it would end up with one or both of you being...  _damaged_..." Mycroft grimaced. "As so often happens with sentiment."

"You two are scarily alike," John muttered.

Mycroft ignored him. "But my opinions have rather changed since this evening."

"Mm. Why is that, exactly?"

Mycroft opened his mouth to respond, smile playing on his lips, when suddenly there was a creak from upstairs, the unmistakeable sound of a foot on a floorboard; all three of them glanced up to the ceiling over their heads and then at each other.

John's phone buzzed in his pocket.

_**William:** _

_Am I invited to your charming little tea party? Or would you like to come upstairs and join mine?_


	17. Saddo & Junkie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed writing this one; I wasn't sure where I was going to take it but it sort of just... happened. I hope you enjoy. ^_^

** Chapter Seventeen **

Mycroft tutted as a smile twitched on John’s lips, watching the young man read and re-read the screen. “I assume from the look on your face that my brother has said something amusing? Let me guess… he’s been listening to every word.”

John glanced up, trying to suppress the smile, not wanting either Greg or Mycroft to witness the ridiculous surge of something warm and vaguely pleasant at just a few words from the curly-haired genius. “Don’t know how much he’s heard, but… yeah. He knows I’m here, at least.”

Greg cast his eyes warily around the room. “I’ve always wondered if he’s somehow bugged the living room. Threatened to do it after I had sex with some girl on his armchair.”

The look that Mycroft shot Greg was a hilarious mixture of horror and disgust. “Oh, really, I don’t think we needed to know that!”

John stood, pocketing his phone, directing the conversation back to the matter at hand, already feeling his body start to hum; he was getting edgy. “Shall I go and get him?”

An eyebrow raised, a knowing look; Mycroft’s tone held no insinuation yet his words were meaningful. “I have a feeling that if you _do_ go up there, we won’t be seeing either of you for a while.”

Rolling his eyes, John took the few steps over to the open door. “He asked if he could join us.”

Mycroft’s gaze was unwavering. “Well. I’m sure that was at least part of it.”

John’s response was interrupted by yet another buzzing from within his pocket; he plucked the phone from his pocket and ignored Mycroft’s sigh, eyes scanning the message quickly:

* * *

 

**_William:_ **

_Regardless of what my brother has to say to you I would like, when convenient, to talk to you myself. If you would be more comfortable with both Greg and Mycroft there to witness what I have to say, however, that is of course understandable and I shall join you in the living room._

* * *

 

Quickly he typed back a response:

_Don’t come down. I’ll come to you. Mycroft is being self-important and all-knowing._

* * *

 

**_William:_ **

_Surprised?_

* * *

 

John grinned slightly and raised his eyes back to the two other men in the room. Mycroft was already sliding on a long, black coat, unperturbed by John’s lack of response and apparently accurately reading into it rather accurately. “We’ll leave you two to have your conversation in peace, then. Gregory, you have a lecture at 9am tomorrow, correct? You should probably get some rest.”

Greg shot Mycroft a mutinous glare. “If you think I’m going to my lecture after tonight -”

“I don’t think, I _know_ ,” Mycroft interrupted, plucking an umbrella from behind the chair and leaning on it like a cane. “I assured your mother I would keep an eye on you during your studies and I am certainly not going to let you miss lectures simply because you’ve lost out on a little sleep.”

“A little sleep?! I have to be awake in five hours!”

“Plenty of time to get your head down. Come on now, get upstairs – John, you’ll probably be more comfortable conducting your conversation in here rather than in Sherlock’s room. There’s barely enough room for a bed, let alone two young, growing men…” Mycroft trailed off, eyes piercing as they watched John for his reaction; to John’s credit, however, the younger man managed to maintain a look of butter-wouldn’t-melt nonchalance. “Well. Anyway. You’ll most definitely be more comfortable down here.”

Sherlock’s voice came from behind John before the shorter man could argue, deeper than usual and quite obviously still exhausted:

“Quite.”

John turned quickly, seeing the tall, pale form of Mycroft’s younger brother making his way down the stairs; god, he looked terrible. John had seen better-looking corpses.

“Thank you for your advice, Mycroft, though I’m sure John and I would have managed just fine in my bedroom. Plenty of room to… converse.”

Mycroft’s nose wrinkled slightly. “Please, there’s no need for that.”

“What?” Sherlock entered the room properly, giving a brief nod to John and brushing past his brother to settle down in ‘his’ armchair. “I would’ve thought you’d be pleased. You’re always telling me to get more exercise.”

A small mutter of ‘christ’ came from Greg’s corner of the room; Mycroft sighed deeply and started to walk towards the doorway, swinging his umbrella from side-to-side gently. “Calm down, Sherlock. You’ll give poor Gregory a heart attack.”

Sherlock cast a narrowed glance towards his apparently fragile housemate. “Serves him right for having sex in my chair.”

“I knew you had this place bugged!” Greg cried, pointing at him accusatorily. “I told you -” His finger moved around the room to point at both Mycroft and John, nodding fervently, “– I told you, didn’t I?”

“Go to bed, Gregory,” Mycroft said wearily, stepping out into the hallway and waving his umbrella in the direction of the stairs, “you’re just paranoid from lack of sleep. I mean, really,” he muttered, seemingly speaking to his younger brother, “it’s like looking after a child. Or a dog.”

“Less grateful,” Sherlock murmured back, leaning his head forward and touching his fingertips to his forehead as if in pain. “More expensive.”

“Fucking hell – I’m going to bed,” Greg grumbled loudly with a frown in John’s direction – clearly he was wondering how he had the patience to put up with one of the Holmes’ brothers, let alone both, undoubtedly questioning his sanity. “See you in a few hours, Sherlock. And John,” he added almost unwillingly, looking awkward at the possibility, “suppose I might see you too.”

John shrugged, a casual “don’t know yet” slipping out just as Sherlock said “of course he’ll be here” – both Sherlock and John found themselves staring at each other, a tiny smile playing on Sherlock’s lips as John tried to read past Sherlock’s allusions and see what he was really thinking; needless to say, he failed. He settled for allowing a small grin as Greg stalked past them all, muttering to himself about god knows what and stomping up the stairs and into the bathroom – the sound of running water hummed overhead as the three of them looked at each other.

Mycroft placed his hand on the front door, raising his chin slightly as he looked his brother over with a brisk gaze. “If I leave you here with John can I assume that you won’t attempt to break out of the house again?”

“I’m sure he’ll find some way of keeping me distracted,” Sherlock said lightly, curling a few strands of hair around his long index finger as he kept his intense gaze fixed uncomfortably on Mycroft’s own steady stare. Sometimes John could almost have sworn that his friend wasn’t joking about it at all, so believable were his tone and manner. “And it wasn’t an attempt, Mycroft. I distinctly recall that I _did_ break out.”

“I suppose we can’t expect Gregory to be able to watch you at all hours of the day – though if you could refrain from making it a necessity that would of course be preferable…?” There was an odd thread of genuine concern in Mycroft’s voice, the question an authentic request. “If you can’t bring yourself to tell me _why_ , can you at least tell me if there’s something any of us can do to… prevent it happening again in the future?”

Sherlock did not meet Mycroft’s questioning stare. “I told you. There was no reason. I just wanted it.”

“Can you not…” Mycroft struggled quietly for a moment, clearly not knowing how to phrase it, “…find something else to want? Something perhaps less destructive? Dare I say it, something legal?”

John had watched their exchange with fascination, but at this point he had to break in. “Not sure the latter is something he can promise, Mycroft.”

Sherlock’s full lips convulsed into another tiny grin, meeting John’s gaze briefly: the observatory and breathless laughter flashed in the space between them. “Mm.”

Mycroft looked between them for a moment before making a low noise in the back of his throat, clearly beyond finding their little camaraderie amusing. “Ugh. Please don’t make me take back what I said earlier, John, I would so like to believe that you’ll be a good influence on my little brother.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Sherlock advised quietly, eyes still on John, “though if you’re really looking for reassurance then I suppose I can say with at least _some_ confidence that I don’t imagine I’ll be turning back to my little habit anytime soon.”

“If it’s that easy, Sherlock, then _why -_ ”

“We’ve discussed this already, Mycroft, I just had a moment of what you would gleefully call _weakness_. Don’t make me repeat myself again, it’s an absurd waste of my time.”

John glimpsed them both alternately, to the older Holmes brother with his combined look of determination and concern and the younger Holmes brother with a stare of boredom and mild irritation. It was almost amusing. Almost. “Sorry to interrupt you both during your staring competition, but it’s not getting any easier to stay conscious…”

Mycroft cleared his throat, nodding and cracking open the front door. “Yes, of course. My apologies for keeping you up so late, John. I very much appreciate you putting your opinions of me aside to come here tonight.”

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open. “You _appreciate_ something somebody else did?”

John, too, was slightly alarmed. “You just apologised to me.”

The tall, older man pulled the door open completely, cold air flooding in. “Contrary to popular belief, I am not as unfeeling or unreasonable as either one of you might believe.”

A derisive snort came from Sherlock’s general direction. “And you say _I’m_ the one with a drug problem. What have you been taking?”

Mycroft raised his eyes to the ceiling, turning from his little brother and stepping outside. “Let me assure you that there is very little in this world to which I would succumb to out of desire for pleasure.”

“You don’t need to try and convince me,” Sherlock muttered, picking at his thumb nail, “we both know that you’ve never experienced a single moment of pleasure in your lifetime.”

Mycroft was completely out of the door now, hand on the outside handle, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Hmm. You’re probably right. How glad I am that I don’t have such ridiculous desires to distract me.”

Sherlock shot a dark look at his brother. “Goodbye, Mycroft.”

A tiny smile as Mycroft swung the door closed. “Sherlock. John.” The door closed behind him, as quiet as the man himself; Sherlock leaned over into the bay window and shouted (apparently not caring that Greg was attempting sleep):

“TRY THE DOCKS, THE BOYS DOWN THERE MIGHT CHANGE YOUR MIND!”

When the young man turned back to face the living room, satisfied with having had the last word, John was awkwardly hovering in the doorway with his arms shoved in his pockets; the house was so quiet now. The lamp in the corner of the room was a bright one, yet the glow it emitted was a warm light, yellow, casting a burnished glaze to everything in the room and was making John – along with the warmth of the house in general – feel rather drowsy. But he was here with Sherlock and they had a conversation to have, though what Sherlock would have to say was unknown to him. His plan had been to send that text of support to him and leave it there, leave it until Sherlock felt ready to bring it up… which he hadn’t expected to happen for at least a few weeks. The fact that the clearly exhausted twenty-six year old wanted to talk about it now was slightly unnerving, though there was no real reason to be concerned.

Was there?

John cleared his throat. “So.”

Sherlock was watching him closely. “Indeed.”

John edged into the room a little more, hands still rooted deeply within his pockets. “You all right?”

Sherlock did not laugh at the ridiculous question, though the slight eye-roll was a clear enough indicator that it was a stupid query. Still, he did answer.

“Tired. You?”

He rounded the arm of the sofa and sat on the edge of the seat. “Same.”

Icy eyes were still watching him intently. “Want to sleep? I can get you some blankets. Mrs. Hudson has plenty stored away in the central heating cupboard.”

John’s brow creased at the unfamiliar name. “Mrs. Hudson?”

“My landlady.”

“Oh.” One slow blink later and John was concerned he may have fallen asleep for a few moments. “No. No, you wanted to talk to me. I’m awake.” He shook himself a little, widening his eyes and forcing himself to meet Sherlock’s stare. “I’m fine, I’m awake.”

“You’re exhausted,” Sherlock contradicted sharply, “you haven’t had nearly as much sleep today as you usually would. Your body isn’t used to it.”

John shook his head again, forcing his eyes open as wide as he could. “No, I’m fine, Sherlock. Really. Talk to me.” He forced himself to remain on the edge of the sofa, determined not to sink back into the soft leather lest he give in to the warmth and comfort and drift off.

Sherlock stood. “I’m going to get you some blankets.”

John leapt up himself. “No, I’m fine!”

“John.” Sherlock was glaring at him through heavily fatigued eyes, the very picture of lethargy. “What I want to say to you can wait. It would probably be more prudent to wait until daytime anyway.”

Confusing. “Why?”

Sherlock sighed, looking away for a moment. “If we speak whilst we’re both as tired as we are, we may end up saying things we would regret after a decent few hours’ worth of sleep. It’s like what you said a few weeks ago, about talking in the dark; we say things, feel things we wouldn’t necessarily say or feel when the lights are on. The same goes for when we can’t think straight.”

John waited until Sherlock’s gaze met his own once more. “You remember that.”

Sherlock gave a quick jerk of his head, impatient. “Of course I remember that. _You_ said it.”

The inflection on the ‘you’ was odd, should have made John feel uncomfortable but – almost as if proving what Sherlock had said – instead he felt a surge of warmth through his veins, a gentle tingling where there would usually be discomfort at the implied intimacy. A thought crossed his mind, a small chuckle escaping his throat; Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, body visibly tensing.

“Why are you laughing?”

John shook his head, looking down at the carpet; no, he’d keep that thought to himself. “It’s nothing.”

“ _Tell_ me.” The tone was insistent, agitated. John raised his eyes and saw Sherlock frowning, lips slightly open. “I warn you, I have a very short fuse tonight. I won’t want to ask more than twice.”

Allowing himself the satisfaction of a small eye-roll, John laced his fingers together in his lap and shrugged, keeping his tone light and casual despite Sherlock’s reference to his current delicate situation. “I don’t know, it’s just… it’s weird, isn’t it?”

Sherlock sighed impatiently, arms folding over his chest. “ _What_ is weird? Really, John, specifics would be preferable.”

“It’s just that… it doesn’t feel like it’s only been a couple of weeks. You know?” John glanced up at Sherlock again, noting that the tension in the man’s body hadn’t yet left. “I was thinking on the way over here – well, I couldn’t get to sleep. So I went for a walk, ended up in Greenwich Park.”

“And here I found myself deep in sleep,” Sherlock remarked quietly, relaxing the tiniest bit. “We must have switched places.”

“Mm. But it made me start thinking of everything we’ve been through in the last two weeks and how quickly… how quickly it all just _escalated_.”

“Escalated?” Sherlock frowned again at the use of the word. “You make it sound like a bad thing. Oh, well,” he added, his voice suddenly harsh, “I can’t blame you for that after tonight. No doubt you -”

“If you let me finish, Sherlock, you’ll actually hear what I’m trying to explain.”

Slightly mollified by John’s stern tone, Sherlock rolled his eyes and adopted a somewhat sulky glare. “Fine. Get on with it, then.”

John sighed. Was it actually worth trying to explain himself? “I meant escalated as in… well. Look at us.” He extended his hand, directing it first to Sherlock and then back to himself. “We’ve known each other two weeks and already I’ve told you you’re an arsehole, admitted that you’re my friend, got raving drunk at your house and had someone assume that we’re gay together _on our first meeting_ , went for a casual two-hour walk around campus, had dinner at a rather cosy Italian restaurant, broken into the Greenwich Observatory and now, well, we’re standing here at god knows what time in the morning after a _very_ dramatic evening like the weirdest duo that ever lived… the depressive and the drug addict.”

Shock flitted across Sherlock’s face at John’s casual reference, quickly replaced by annoyance, rapidly changing to amusement. “The depressive and the drug addict?”

John covered his mouth, trying to suppress the smile threatening to shape itself on his lips. “Saddo and Junkie.”

Sherlock’s own lips creased into a grin. “Not the best nickname I’ve ever had.”

“The _only_ nickname you’ve ever had.”

“True.”

The two of them stared at each other for a few moments more before slowly John allowed himself to sit back down on the sofa, looking up at Sherlock with his own silly grin still spread out over his face; Sherlock’s grin lessened but did not disappear completely as he still lingered in the middle of the room. When he eventually broke the silence, he gestured towards the door.

“I’m still going to get you some blankets.”

But now John was buzzing again. “I don’t want to sleep.”

“Still,” Sherlock said, x-ray gaze as piercing as ever, “you will at some point. You may as well stay here. We can go over all of the studying you haven’t been doing later today.”

At once John became serious. “Are you going to be… all right to do that?”

Sherlock let out a little ‘pfft’ noise, looking down at John with increasing condescension. “Please, John. My brain is far more capable than most recovering addicts at getting back to normal. I’ll be fine.”

And, like that, they were on the subject they had initially been meaning to discuss. John was hesitant, but he knew that if they were going to move on and figure out a way of getting on with this they’d have to talk about it. “I… have questions.”

“I know.”

“But I don’t want to ask if -”

Sherlock put his hand out, silencing him. “I’ll get the blankets and make us a cup of tea. Then you can ask your questions. All right?”

John nodded. “Okay.”

**\- X -**

With John covered in blankets and holding a steaming cup of tea between his hands, Sherlock sat in the armchair and began to talk.

“I was fifteen when I was first introduced to drugs. I was at boarding school, one where the mere mention of drugs was to bring shame on your entire family and so, in the end, it should have been a difficult process. It shouldn’t have been possible. But, needless to say, it was.

A boy came to our school, seemingly from the right people. He was a typically ‘nice’ sort of boy, not like most of the boys in my year – he lacked the arrogance of the rest of us, was humble and gentle, worked hard and got better grades than most of the honour students already enrolled; he never stopped. When he wasn’t studying in the library or taking advanced classes he was out on the rugby pitch or badminton courts, always going, constantly motivated to do this and that and for the life of me I couldn’t work it out. I couldn’t read him. Believe me, John, I tried. He intrigued me, in truth I was a little infatuated with him – oh, not like that, I saw that little flash of surprise in your eyes. No, not in a sexual or romantic way, nothing like that at all. He was simply… unknown. And because of that, I became obsessed.

Eventually my own academic prowess managed to ensnare him, and god knows I had worked harder than ever to ensure such a result. He came to me one day to discuss my notes, wanting to see them and to be advised by me how to take better notes so as to retain information the way that I did – imagine his amazement when I explained that it was unnecessary for me to write my notes down, absorbing it all and always able to spout back any information from days, weeks, months before. He seemed quite as intrigued by me as I was by him, and one day it seemed that we had actually cemented an acquaintanceship and a partnership, the two cleverest boys at school, the audacious one and the nice one. We were a formidable team and everybody knew us. It felt, for the first time in my life, what it was like to be accepted. I revelled in it.

One day he dropped his bag in the dormitory and out of it rolled a small bottle of pills – it looked like prescription medication, something called Adderall… I’m sure you’re well aware that it’s a stimulant, most often used for ADHD and narcolepsy. I picked it up and enquired about it – I was careful, remained calm, kept my tone low and simply acted as if I were merely curious rather than accusing him of anything. As far as I had been aware he had no medical issues, in fact he was seemingly strong as a horse and was quickly turning into one of the athletic stars as well as an apparent academic genius. The boy – Peter, his name was – he looked at me for a good long while before making excuses, telling me that he had picked it up for a friend, that it was nothing to do with him. Being rather sharp at deducing people’s tone and mannerisms as I was, I decided to let it go, predicting that if I were to leave it for a while and stay silent about the matter he would come to me eventually, piqued by my own interest.

Needless to say, I was right.

He took them to help him study. He barely slept – he was quite proud of this – and relied heavily on these prescription meds to get him through each day. He found boundless energy with them, finding that with 23 hours a day at his disposal he could practice with his sports teams and study in the library whilst soaring through his assignments with top marks and accolades aplenty – oh, it was music to my ears. At first I was dismissive, uninterested, but as he started to eclipse me in everything and I steadily became his arrogant friend – whereas before he had been _my_ nice friend – I finally asked him to let me try it. He gladly let me, pleased to have someone in on his little secret; I think that he was actually far more obsessed with me than I was with him, mostly as I now knew what lay beneath his apparent layers of intellect, I knew the reasons behind his unfailing talents. He held no thrall for me now, but for him he had found a partner in crime and genius, and giving me the Adderall and watching me experience its effects was, I think, greatly pleasurable to him.

It did not, however, benefit me. I became irritable, agitated, far too easily falling into moments of anger and darkness, succumbing to – and here it is, John, the reason I seem to know so much on the topic – depression. I took it for a month, waiting for the glory of it all to finally settle in and make me even greater than Peter, but alas I found myself sinking deeper and deeper until finally I threw the bottle in Peter’s face and snarled to him to find me a cure, to find me something to make it all better. Alarmed, and probably frightened that I would tell an authority figure about his little habit, he got hold of some Vicodin for me and therein started my journey into opiates. Peter excelled, continued to aim higher and higher, his magical addiction providing him with the foothold to become Head Boy and something far greater than I ever had been; meanwhile I had begun an addiction, a torrid love-affair. I began to fail my classes. My parents were called. Peter stopped talking to me. I was taken out of boarding school and sent to a school closer to home so that they could keep an eye on me.

I won’t go into details John; forgive me, but I feel I couldn’t possibly put my downfall into the right words. What I can tell you is that Vicodin was eventually overtaken at the age of seventeen by the drug I am now suffering withdrawal symptoms from, a drug that I quickly fell in arduous love with and became utterly obsessed with in a way that I… well. I simply cannot put it into words. But it was a dangerous fall and clearly, two years later, I am still struggling with my battle against it. My parents suffered at the hands of my addiction – my brother too, a source of resentment that I am most certain has not yet dissipated – this happening after a particularly terrible overdose, something that left me in a coma and almost destroyed both my life and the lives of those around me.

I refused professional help; I expect that this is why even now I still fail myself and my family at times and find myself in a darkened alley with a questionable piece of scum who takes my money and hands me the most destructive substance I have ever experienced… I wish I could explain it to you, John, truly I do. I wish I could find the words to explain how it grips you, holds you tight until you find you can barely breathe and then, just when it lets go, you find yourself longing for it once more. In the past when I have been in recovery yet again, I’ll find myself sinking back into a black mood or phase of depression, something that of course makes me know to an extent how you feel and how your illness affects you. I warned you of the ease of slipping into substance abuse, and that is purely from experience. It _is_ true that had I not begun my journey of illegal drugs I may not have had any form of depression, therefore not reaching out to drugs once more to bring me out of the darkness, but alas, hindsight is far too sharp and I cannot begrudge it for its nature. No point dwelling on it.

And so, there you are, John. My little story. My fall. I have an addiction and it is not romantic nor interesting; it’s festering, continuous, an endless battle. There is not a day that goes by where I don’t think of it, want it – luckily my mind is advanced as such that I relish the challenge, distracting myself with such insanity as breaking into listed buildings and risking my life in the very dark, damp streets of London’s depths, mixing with criminals and making them both my allies and my foes – oh, John, it’s another type of addiction entirely. But it leads to the question: which would be preferable? The drug or the actions? The heroin or the adrenaline? I know which one you would probably pick – though reluctantly, as I’m sure any action that would risk my life you’d look down upon – and of course, that is the one which I choose more often than not. I distract myself well and I do not give into my temptation.

Evidently, that is not always the case. Hence where we are now and the conversation that we’re having.”

By the time Sherlock had finished speaking, John was both in the throes of drowsiness and utterly involved, eyes wide open and body frozen in its sheer exhaustion. He had absorbed every word and knew that it would take some time to process it all, so many details to think over… christ, his mind was a mess of information. There were only a few things that floated with some clarity to the surface, breaking through the mulch and making him want to ask questions despite nearly all of the questions he’d originally had having already been answered – and he didn’t want to have to ask questions. The curly-haired man’s voice was already cracking from use, Sherlock’s body leaning forward in sheer exhaustion as his fists clenched and his eyes closed slowly and opened just as slow.

There would be time for questions later. Not now.

When John spoke, his voice was barely a murmur. “Thank you.”

Sherlock eyed him. “For what?”

John did not feel he needed to explain. “All of it.”

Nodding slowly, Sherlock rubbed his hands over his face, his throat sounding sore as he spoke into the dimly lit room once again. “Did I miss anything? Do you have any more questions?”

John hesitated. “I do… but they’re not important.”

“Sure? I can manage a few more minutes.”

“No,” John said, shaking his head. “They really aren’t important, they – WAIT.” One particular question began screaming itself hoarse in the back of his mind, probably the _least_ important question but one that he absolutely had to get out in the open. “Wait, wait. In your story, you said that you started on the heroin when you were seventeen.”

Sherlock nodded, eyes guarded. “Yes.”

“And _then_ you said…” John stared at him, his mind creeping along ridiculously slow behind his voice. “You said _two years later, I’m still struggling_.”

Surprise shadowed Sherlock’s face before a tiny flicker of understanding glittered in his eyes. “I did say that.”

John stared even harder, barely even able to ask the question. “So… you’re…” He shook his head. “You’re _nineteen_?!”

Sherlock simply nodded. “And?”

His body collapsed into itself, falling back onto the soft leather cushion behind him as he brought the blankets up to his chin. John was in a state of shock, for the most ridiculous of reasons. “You’re a _teenager_!”

“Does that bother you?”

“Yes!” John exploded, eyes wide, throwing his hands up in the air as a stupidly big smile spread over his face. “I mean – well, no, not really, but at the same time, yes! Yes, it’s… I thought you were twenty-six!”

“I know.”

“Oh, you _know_?” John cried, burying his face in the soft blankets. “But you didn’t think you needed to tell me?”

Sherlock looked at him intently, uncomprehending. “I don’t understand why this bothers you so much.”

John closed his eyes, trying to calm himself; he was overreacting – true, he was overreacting with a grin and it was in actual fact not a big deal at all, but _still_. “You’re seven years _younger_ than I thought you were. Four years younger than me.”

“Then tell me, John,” Sherlock mused quietly, leaning forward and leaning his elbows on his legs as he stared intently at his friend, “does this change how you look at me? Do you like me any less? Respect me any less?”

John gazed back. “No…”

“Do you want to rescind your friendship? Take it all back? Go back to your accommodation and pretend we never even met?”

John was appalled. “No!”

Sherlock shrugged, narrowing his eyes. “Then what’s the problem?”

The shorter – and now apparently _older_ – man deflated completely, curling into the blankets. “There isn’t one.”

Triumphant, Sherlock gave a small, smug grin. “Just as I thought. Age doesn’t make any difference, John. Granted, if I were ordinary or what you consider to be normal I would probably have a larger influx of hormones than you currently do, however I’ve never been affected by them and I am exactly the same person as a self-confessed nineteen year as I would be if I were your assumed twenty-six year old. It changes nothing.”

John sighed, knowing his entire reaction had been an over-exaggeration brought on my tiredness and the drama of the evening – he had embarrassed himself a bit. “Sorry. Guess I’m just… tired.”

“It’s all right,” Sherlock allowed generously, straightening his back and resting his hands on the armrests. “We both are. Which leads me to -”

“Sleep?”

Sherlock nodded. “I think it’s best if we both try and get a few hours, even if it really is only a few. If you’re sure you have nothing else you want to ask me.”

John eyed him for a moment, taking in his calm composure. “You’re being very open. I appreciate that. Admire it, too.”

Sherlock stood, the motion seeming almost effortless had it not been for the gentle sway of his body as he regained his balance; he looked more exhausted than John felt, and that was saying something.

“Don’t get too used to it, John. Sentiment is _so_ dull.”


	18. Involved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter written whilst practically falling asleep - hope it's not too crappy! xD Still, I genuinely enjoy every darned second of writing this fic, so either way I'm happy! Love and hugs, thanks so much for the continuing support!

**Chapter Eighteen**

John slept absurdly well. The sofa was just long enough that his feet brushed the other end, the blankets were incredibly warm and there was a strange comfort in knowing that just upstairs was a friend – well, no,  _two_  friends – and all these things combined allowed John to have the deepest, most uninterrupted sleep he'd had in the last few months. When he woke up six hours later it was a natural and gentle awakening where, rather than staring at the ceiling and deciding to just fall back to sleep (because what was the point in waking up?), he let out a satisfied groan as he stretched out his arms, pushing the blankets from his torso, turning on his side and finding himself facing a cup of tea steaming on the coffee table in front of him.

His eyes instantly darted over to the armchair.

"Good morning, John."

Sherlock sat on the armchair with a laptop precariously balanced on the arm, a cup of tea in his hand; he was already dressed, no longer in a polo-shirt and jeans but the fitted shirt and trousers that John had come to associate with him. Over the top of the shirt it looked as if he were wearing a robe, burgundy and well-worn, an odd addition to his usual formality but strangely fitting whilst sitting with no shoes on and a cup of tea brought calmly to his lips.

John felt like a mess in comparison. "Hi… morning. What time is it?"

Sherlock did not look at him, eyes fixated on the screen in front of him. "Half past nine."

Christ. When was the last time he'd seen half past nine in the morning? "Did Greg make it to his lecture?"

"Oh, certainly. I ensured it."

John grinned slightly, rubbing his eyes and pushing himself so that he was sitting up properly. "Bet you're not his favourite person."

"Luckily I have enough experience in being nobodies favourite person to help me through this difficult time," Sherlock said, a sarcastic edge to his tone. "I'm sure I can cope with it."

 _Well, that was a quick recovery,_  John thought wryly, pushing the blankets off of himself completely and swinging his legs over the side of the sofa, well aware of his rumpled clothes and no doubt completely mussed-up hair; almost as if reading his mind and wanting to glorify in the fact, Sherlock glanced over at him and gave him a small smirk.

"You look like a hedgehog."

John's hands went instantly up to his hair and ruffled it violently. "Wow, thanks."

"No problem."

Reaching over and carefully gripping the steaming cup in one hand, John found himself looking with interest around the room that he had been too tired to take notice of the night before, eyes lingering on bits and pieces as they travelled: it was a very nice, large room. It had clearly once been two separate rooms with a wall between them, but at one point or another its owner had decided to separate the two and it now had a nice archway leading through from the sitting room to a dining room with a lovely mixed-wood table, six matching chairs neatly positioned around it. The wallpaper going through into both rooms seemed relatively old-fashioned, wide deep red and gold horizontal stripes with a mid-wall detailed border; in the living room itself there was the three-seater worn leather sofa against the wall which John was currently sitting on (the same wall which had the doorway out into the hall) and in the bay window was Sherlock's large leather armchair, looking slightly out of place all on its own but cleverly distracted from by two small glass rounded tables either side with various books and papers scattered upon them – one of them even had a pretty crystal vase settled on top of a chunky pile of paper but, unsurprisingly, had nothing in it.

Something that John had failed to notice until now was the lack of a television in the room, something foreign to him; instead on the wall opposite the sofa there was a large fireplace, beautiful ironwork and a deep oak frame making it fit perfectly within the cosy atmosphere. Above the fireplace hung a huge golden-framed mirror, making the whole space seem brighter and bigger than it actually was; on the actual mantelpiece sat candles of varying sizes, a skull – John couldn't be sure but it looked like a genuine, human skull – and a little tub of something he couldn't identify from here… possibly Vaseline? Polish?

The floor was wooden, much like the hallway, but underneath the coffee table and stretching out as far as the edge of the sofa was a deep red rug, soft underneath John's feet and adding to the general warm feeling of the room; the same style rug was also beneath the dining room table. In the middle of the dining room table was a large ivory pillar candle spiked on top of a plain black candlestick. There seemed to be pictures hung on the walls but from here John couldn't define what they were, though the hue stuck to the theme of the rooms and radiated warm reds, oranges, yellows and golds. A large wooden sideboard was to the left of the dining room table, though again John couldn't see what rested upon it from his position on the sofa. French doors adorned with heavy ivory curtains sat at the end of the house, opening out into the garden which, of course, John had already seen. Presumably the yellow-walled kitchen was to the left of the dining room.

All in all, it was very nice – warm, absolutely warm, it was the only word John could think of to describe the whole setup and decoration.

Ceasing his curiosity, he brought the cup of tea to his lips and looked back towards Sherlock who was, rather than staring intently at the laptop, looking straight at him. He smiled awkwardly. "Very nice. Warm."

Sherlock gave a small nod. "It's not usually so tidy. Mycroft is a stickler for cleanliness."

"Mycroft cleaned in here?"

"Of course not," Sherlock said derisively, draining the last dregs of his tea, "Greg would have had to do it."

John couldn't help but give a short bark of laughter – god, poor Greg. Living with one Holmes brother and being under the thumb of the other probably wasn't the most pleasant experience… but, still, he lived here for free. There had to be  _some_  perks.

Sherlock was still staring at him, looking thoughtful.

"What?"

The genius placed his cup on the glass table next to him and stood, walking towards the door. "Would you prefer to go home and shower before we concentrate on the work that you've missed in my absence?"

John balked, looking down at his sleep-wrinkled clothes and back up at Sherlock. "I don't know, I hadn't really thought about it. Would you prefer it if I did?"

Sherlock turned, glancing him over and shrugging briefly. "It doesn't much matter to me either way. Whatever suits you."

John allowed himself a few minutes to think it over; he felt a little groggy, a little grubby and more than a little self-conscious when in the presence of an extremely clean-looking Sherlock – it probably wouldn't have bothered him if the man looked anything like he had ten hours ago, but now he felt extremely out of place and didn't relish the idea of having to sit and concentrate on whatever delights Sherlock had planned whilst in the same clothes as the day before. He rubbed his hands on his thighs and pushed himself into a standing position – his muscles groaned. As comfortable as the sofa had been, it wasn't quite a substitute for a real mattress.

He patted the pocket of his jeans to make sure his keys were still there. "Yeah, all right. I'll go get showered and change my clothes. Meet you back here afterwards?"

Sherlock nodded. "Try not to take too long."

**\- X -**

Studying with Sherlock in person wasn't all that different to over the internet. They sat opposite each at the small, round kitchen table, laptops facing their respective owners whilst Sherlock sent page after page of course material for him to look at and John found himself instantly overwhelmed with the sheer amount of notes he would have to take. It was odd; two hours ago he had felt so incredibly normal – disturbingly so – and yet now, sitting in the sunny kitchen with his friend after what definitely counted as his most satisfying sleep in  _months_ he found himself back in the rut, in the grey, in the flat expanse of his ridiculous mental handicap. He found himself staring alternately at Sherlock and the screen, waiting for one of them to hold some sort of grasp on his attention yet nothing stuck. The words in front of him might as well have been a different language. It took him less than an hour before he tilted his laptop screen down and closed his eyes, shaking his head in disbelief.

"I can't do it, Sherlock. There's too much, you've given me too much to focus on at once."

"Focus on one assignment at a time and stop thinking about the others," Sherlock replied calmly, his eyes zigzagging over whatever he was looking at on his screen. "You never had a problem with multiple assignments back before your depression – if you could do it then, you can do it now."

"That's the thing, though... I  _have_  depression now." John lightly jabbed the table with his finger, raising his eyebrows towards Sherlock. "It's taking all I've got just to sit here opposite you and even  _look_  at what you sent me."

"Mm." Sherlock didn't sound in the least bit interested. "So what are you going to do about it?"

"Well, apparently I'm supposed to forget I have a bunch of mulchy crap in my head and just -"

"No," the impatient genius interrupted, gaze still focused on his screen, "what are you going to do about your depression?"

John stared at him. "I don't know. Get over it?"

"How?"

A frown flickered onto his brow, creasing his forehead. "By... not being a total and utter failure?"

Sherlock shot him a dark look from over the top of his screen. "Be serious."

"I am," John said lightly, jabbing his finger into the table again. "If I can get my work done and start getting my grades back up, I'll start to feel better about myself."

"Hmm."

A sigh escaped John's lips. " _What_?"

"What do you mean, 'what'?"

"Whenever you say 'hmm' it's because you're thinking about something and not bothering to say it. I swear you do it just to irritate me."

Sherlock glanced up again. "You seem to assume that I do a lot of things to irritate you."

"No, don't try and distract me." John leaned forward. "What are you thinking but not saying?"

"Oh, a veritable chasm of things, let me assure you -"

" _Sherlock_."

Sherlock slammed the lid of his laptop down. "Fine. Your depression isn't the consequence of your bad grades, your bad grades are a consequence of your depression. All of the things that you associate with your depression –  _like_  your terrible essays, your introversion, your constant sleeping, your lack of a healthy diet and regular exercise – they are  _consequences_. Fix any of those, all of them even, and you still won't find yourself without depression."

John clenched his jaw. "Right. So. You're saying I'm stuck like this forever? No, wait, that's not an option because if I  _am_  going to be stuck like this forever I may as well just kill myse-"

"That's not even faintly amusing," Sherlock cut across him sharply, eyes blazing wintry irritation, "so don't even joke about it."

John steadily met Sherlock's frustration with his own calm gaze, shrugging his shoulders once and not bothering to respond with words; he didn't need to. He could see the irritation in his friend's icy eyes turn rapidly to determined anger, then simply to determination as the man read him like a book and saw... well. He saw. John didn't need to put it into words.

When Sherlock spoke, his voice was laced with a steely resoluteness. "All right then. So we're both agreed it's high time you start dealing with your depression properly?"

John had a feeling of where this was going and he felt his own frustration rise in response. "Don't even bother suggesting it, Sherlock, it's not going to happen."

"Stop being so obtuse about it and just  _consider_  it."

"What about you?"

Sherlock's lip curled. "What  _about_  me?"

John tilted his chin up slightly. "Not that I want to be a bastard or anything but you're being just a tiny bit hypocritical, don't you think?"

"I don't -" Sherlock broke off, understanding dawning on his face; it quickly turned to something far darker, something John couldn't quite define. "No. No, I'm dealing with it my way. Don't interfere."

John rolled his eyes, leaning back on his chair and folding his arms. "Oh, what, you can interfere with my problems but I can't interfere in yours?"

"It's not the same," Sherlock responded through gritted teeth, no longer looking at him but instead at the wall to the left of him. "Different circumstances, different... problems."

"You can't just -"

"I mean it, John." Sherlock forced his gaze up, eyes fiery. "Don't interfere."

"Fine." John stood up, slamming his own laptop closed. "If we're not going to be on an even keel there's no point carrying on with this conversation."

Sherlock stood too, glaring imperiously across the table at his short friend. "We aren't done here! You have work to do!"

"I can do this studying just as well at home as I can here."

"Oh no you can't," Sherlock said with a sarcastic laugh, "you'll just end up sleeping!"

"Maybe I  _want_  to sleep!"

"Well maybe you just want to fail all of your classes, then!" They were practically shouting now, their words echoing off of the walls and back at them. "Fine, go, that's fine! Go and wallow in your depressive little pit, go and crawl back into your hole, see if it makes any difference to me!"

John rolled his eyes, grabbing his laptop from the table and shoving it under his arm. "I'm just asking you to be bloody  _fair_ , Sherlock, and I don't think that's asking too much after last night! There's no need to be such a... a...  _dickpiece_  about it!"

Sherlock's mouth opened as if to retort, finger pointing dramatically towards John, but rather than respond with what would have no doubt been something razor-sharp and good enough to cut straight to the bone he simply clamped his lips shut again and sat down heavily on the chair. For a few moments he sat there silently, staring at the table, John glaring down at Sherlock with a gradually receding self-righteous anger pounding through his ears and making him feel ever so slightly light-headed; neither of them spoke for a full minute, the seconds ticking past and making the tension grow and become stale.

Eventually Sherlock spoke, quiet.

"Is it always like this?"

John didn't pretend to misunderstand; all the fight left his body as he, too, collapsed back onto his chair. "I've never had a friendship quite like it, I'll say that."

Sherlock slowly shifted his eyes up to meet John's. "It's exhausting."

"I know."

"But worth it, I think."

A small smile flitted over John's lips. "I know."

"Why do you think it is?" Sherlock seemed to be genuinely bewildered, brow creased in confusion. "Why do you think we always seem to have to have some sort of... emotional...  _explosion_?"

"I don't know," John admitted, rubbing his palm over his face, "I really don't. I mean, I guess it kind of helps me. Breaks me out of my... grey."

"Mm."

"But why you end up getting so riled up I have no idea. You're  _supposed_  to be a sociopath."

Sherlock sighed. "I  _am_  a sociopath, John. You just bring out the worst in me."

"You think this is the worst of you?"

"Oh no, I was talking about the smiling. I do far too much of that with you."

Their eyes met - small smiles were exchanged; tension was broken.

John decided he might as well say it. "Thing is, Sherlock, I know very, very,  _very_  deep down that you're right about... what I have to do. I know it and it frustrates the  _hell_  out of me that I'm probably going to have to end up doing something I don't want to do in order to escape whatever it is that's wrong with me. I'm going to have to... talk... to someone."

"Yes."

"But..." He hesitated. "I don't think I can do it whilst knowing that you're doing absolutely  _nothing_  to... help... well. Yourself. And I know you don't want me to interfere and I know I should respect your choice," he added hurriedly, "but the truth is that if you don't do something about it I'll just worry about it. About you. And that might make me feel even worse."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, suspicious. "You're... using it against me."

John shrugged.

"No, you are. You're using your depression against me. That's emotional blackmail."

"But you're a sociopath," John reasoned calmly, shrugging again. "So it shouldn't matter."

Sherlock looked genuinely stunned, eyes blankly staring at John as if seeing him for the first time. "That's... no, it is, it's blackmail!"

"It's the truth." John's gaze was steady as ever, open, honest. "Because whether you or I like it or not, Sherlock, I  _will_  worry about you. No matter how much you tell me not to, that you can handle it, I'm still going to worry. And it would make me feel a lot better about all of this if you took the first step with me."

Sherlock balked. " _With_  you?"

"Yes. We'll both get... help. We'll both find someone to talk to. Not at the same time, don't worry, just... do it with me. Do it with me and maybe it'll feel a little easier to walk in there knowing I'm not the only one preparing to lay myself open to a complete stranger."

His genius friend didn't seem to know where to look. "I don't  _talk_  to people, John. Not about these things. They're no one's business but mine."

John's voice was soft. "And mine. Just as mine are yours."

Sherlock looked up. "That's a mistake, you know. Mycroft was right. You shouldn't get involved."

John set his laptop down on the table, opening the old machine up and bravely, determinedly typing 'London University of Sciences student support' into the intranet and hitting Enter. "Too late for that now. The damage is done. I'm involved."

"Mm." Sherlock stared at him, slightly incredulous. "I suppose that means I am, too."


	19. Captain Holmes & Redbeard The Hairy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been waiting a long time to write this chapter - no, it's not slash, don't get too excited! Anyhoo, hope you enjoy it and please do keep R&Ring. Your comments mean the world to me! =3

**Chapter Nineteen**

"John?"

"Mm?"

Sherlock looked up from one of the many books scattered around him on the floor of the living room, brow creased. "Do you have a favourite colour?"

Carefully highlighting a passage of text, John did not take his eyes off of the page. "What?"

"A colour, a favourite colour. Do you have one?"

He glanced up with a frown, unsure he'd heard correctly. "You're asking me what my favourite colour is?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, picking a book up and letting his eyes fall to the open page. "I didn't realise it was that difficult a question."

"No, it's just..." John shrugged, lips twitching into a half smile. "I don't know, it seems like an odd thing to ask. You never ask me things like that."

"My apologies, remind me not to ask you anything in the future..."

John simply stared at him, bewildered. "Why are you asking me?"

Sherlock shut the book with a 'snap', throwing it down in front of him and placing both hands flat on top of it. "I don't know, isn't it the sort of thing friends know about each other? Favourite colours, siblings, childhood pets? I've known you for a significant amount of time now, John, and I don't know any of these things. So... I'm asking them. Colour? Sibling? Pet?"

John put down the highlighter on the coffee table. "It's been just over a month, Sherlock."

The genius glared at him like he was the biggest idiot in the room; technically he probably was. "Yes. A significant amount of time."

"Significant how?"

"Why are you being so difficult about this?" Sherlock's arms went akimbo into the air, looking every inch the impatient and disgruntled child. "They're very simple questions, John, I'm not asking you to explain the meaning of life!"

"All right, all right, calm down! I was just... surprised. You hate chitchat. How do you even know what sorts of things friends know about each other? Not to sound like a possessive lover about it, but I thought I was your first." John couldn't keep the amusement out of his voice, so odd it was to hear Sherlock so agitated about something so minor. "Have you been Googling again?"

"Oh, it's always Google with you, isn't it? You're never going to let that go!"

John placed his hands on the coffee table, shaking his head and closing his eyes. "All right. I can see this is upsetting you."

Sherlock made a rasping noise in the back of his throat. "Ugh, I'm not  _upset._ "

"Fine. Fine. My favourite colour is blue. Okay? Blue."

Sighing, Sherlock leaned back on the front of the chair and stretched his long legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankle. "Thank you. Was that so difficult?"

John grinned. "Terribly. What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Do you have a favourite colour?"

Sherlock's responding glance was full of disgust. "Don't be ridiculous. Colours are unimportant."

"So why – no, forget it. All right, so, tell me something about you then." John let himself flop back onto the soft leather of the sofa, feeling very much at home – the last few weeks since The Revelatory Evening had changed a lot for them, the most obvious thing being that John rarely left Sherlock and Greg's house. It was now much closer to home than his own bare college room. "I know you have Mycroft. Any other siblings?"

"No, thankfully."

"Pets?"

Sherlock looked away. "Not now."

"Not now?"

"We used to have a dog. A red setter. Redbeard, I...  _we_  called him."

"Oh." John felt the uncomfortable pressure of knowing he'd asked a question that clearly had some unresolved issues attached. "Redbeard... is that in reference to anything?"

Sherlock started to fiddle with a pen, clicking the end over and over. He grunted. John grinned.

"Tell me."

"Why?"

John shrugged. "I told you my favourite colour."

Pale eyes glanced up at him through narrowed eyes. "And I told you I had a dog."

"So ask me something else, then."

The taller man took a few moments, a comfortable silence settling around them; a clock ticked from the dining room, marking the seconds until Sherlock finally spoke again. "Do you have any siblings?"

John raised an eyebrow. "Why are you asking me when you clearly already know the answer?"

Sherlock pursed his lips. "What makes you think I already know?"

"Because you're Sherlock Holmes. And because I saw you looking at the photographs on my noticeboard last week."

A small smile. "So. A sister."

"Yes. Harriet. Harry."

"Older or younger?"

John couldn't help the smug grin. "Twins, actually."

Sherlock's responding grin was just as smug. "So technically she would still be younger or older than you are."

 _Damn it._  "All right then,  _technically_  she's older than I am. Happy?"

"Naturally. Pets, then. Any of those?" Sherlock's leg was jiggling slightly, almost as if antsy in his anticipation to hear the answer. "Cat? Dog? Mouse? Rat? Goldfish?"

John shook his head. "No pets. Oh, well, Harry had two goldfish for about a week when she was six before one of them apparently murdered the other and she tearfully flushed them both down the toilet. Said she couldn't love the living one for what he did to his brother."

"Huh. Sentiment. Leads to nothing but aggravation."

"And murder."

Sherlock flashed him the tiniest of smiles, gone as quickly as it had come. "Quite."

John leaned forward with a tiny groan, launching himself up off of the sofa and looking down at his friend with raised eyebrows as the clock in the dining room chimed out 4pm. "Cup of tea?"

"Mm." Sherlock curled his legs up underneath him and pushed himself into a standing position, graceful and lithe as ever. "Greg should be home soon, we can decide what to do about dinner when he gets here."

"Right you are," John agreed, leading the way through the hallway into the bright kitchen; a cold April had made way for a rather beautiful May, enough that the windows were open and cool, sun-kissed air was making its way inside as Sherlock walked over to the kettle and put it on, John reaching up into a cupboard to get down three mugs. "I was thinking maybe we could actually cook tonight rather than order takeaway."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, taking the mugs from John's hands and placing them on the counter, reaching over for the tea bags. "But it's Thursday. It's Thai night."

"Yeees," John said patiently, wandering over to the fridge and pulling it open, checking out the non-existent contents, "but it would also be the fifth night in a row that we've all eaten takeaway. I'm not too keen on aiming for a heart attack by the time I'm thirty."

"So you can make yourself something and Greg and I will have Thai."

"No," John shut the door and turned to his friend, trying to look as serious as he could whilst Sherlock was practically pouting like a child, "no, we're all going to eat together and it will be something that we make from scratch. Or, y'know, sort of from scratch. Something that hasn't come out of the microwave. If you really want Thai we can pick up a sauce from the supermarket and make our own."

Sherlock shot him a dark look. "I don't  _like_  supermarket Thai."

"You don't know that, Sherlock, you've never tried it."

"Hmmph. I don't want to go to the supermarket." The tall, stubborn man-child noisily stirred hot water into the cup, soaking the teabags. "It's loud and... full of people."

"Yes, it's reality, get over it." John re-opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of milk, opening it and giving it a sniff – he recoiled, slamming the lid on top of it but not twisting it on. "Jesus.  _Jesus._  My eyes are watering..."

Sherlock smirked, still stirring the tea despite the milk obviously being useless and therefore rendering their tea undrinkable. "Milk out of date?"

"Why would you leave it in there that long?!" John squinted his eyes at the label, recoiling again just from reading the date. "Best before the eighteenth of April! This milk has been in here nearly as long as I've known you, Sherlock, christ!"

"The milk is Greg's responsibility, not mine. Actually, as you're here so often we should probably talk about you putting some money in for groceries -"

John threw the milk bottle lid at him. "I've already bought more food in the last week alone than you have, so don't even  _try_  it."

Sherlock dodged the lid. "Electricity, gas, water, internet -"

"Oh, you can fu-"

The front door slammed shut, cutting off John's bad language as Greg strode into the kitchen with a manic look on his face, eyes wide as he looked from Sherlock to John. "Guys, I'm sorry, but I forgot to tell you -"

"No." Sherlock didn't even look at him, plucking the bottle of milk from the side and running some hot water, tipping the rancid liquid down the sink. "It's not the weekend and you haven't given me five days notice."

John looked between the housemates. "What?"

Greg leaned on the table, seemingly out of breath. "Come on, Sherlock, the last one wasn't so bad!"

"I'm relatively certain that someone had sex in my bedroom."

John and Greg shared a look, battling for the right to respond appropriately: they stared it out stubbornly until John eventually gave in, shaking his head. Let Greg be the bad guy.

"Yeah, well, at least  _somebody_  is having sex in there."

To John's surprise, Sherlock simply smiled – a big smile, one with teeth and crinkly eyes... positively  _menacing_. "Oh, come on, Greg," he said, voice so low it was almost a rumble, "we both know that John doesn't come here just to  _study_  with me -"

"Oh, christ, shut up," Greg groaned, turning away momentarily and shaking his head hard as if to get rid of the images that no doubt were now painfully vivid in his imagination, "I don't want to know. I  _don't_  want to know. No offence, John, you're a nice guy," he added, putting his hand out in a 'stop' gesture, "but I wouldn't want to imagine Sherlock shagging a fit woman let alone you or any other bloke."

John put both of his hands out in the same gesture, shaking his head equally as hard. "Yeah, Greg, you know we're not  _actually_  a couple -"

"Quiet, sweetie, no need to be embarrassed." Sherlock winked at John, suddenly seeming to be in a remarkably good mood. "Greg's not blind to our raw, sexual tension."

"Fuck me," Greg muttered, turning on the spot as if trapped. "All right, fine, I'll make sure no one has sex in your room tonight, your room will be strictly  _off limits_. Any other caveats?"

Sherlock glanced at John. "We can't do it, Greg. We're all  _cooking_  together tonight."

"Oh, what? Cooking? But it's Thursday, it's Thai night -"

"Oh no, not now – it's  _let's go to the supermarket and prevent early-onset heart problems_  night." Sherlock rolled his eyes as he said it. "I honestly don't know which idea I abhor more, another party barely a month after the last one or attempting to cook a half-decent meal with the two of you."

John frowned, lifting a finger in protest. "Sorry, but are you insinuating that  _we_  would be the ones to make cooking a decent meal difficult?"

"Please, John, I'm a graduate chemist. If anyone can handle ingredients and a naked flame around here, it'll be me."

John folded his arms, leaning back against the counter. "When was the last time you cooked something, Sherlock?"

"That's hardly relevant," Sherlock snapped, whirling away from the useless cups of tea and striding over to the coat rack in the corner of the room, grabbing his long coat from its place and swinging it over his shoulder, slipping his arms in with one, seamless move. "Right, come on then, because either way we need to go to the bloody supermarket."

Greg brightened. "I can have the party?"

John hesitated awkwardly, hands shoved into his pockets as he stepped away from the kitchen side. "Well..."

Both pairs of eyes turned towards him.

"It's not that I don't think it's a good idea," he said quickly, widening his eyes to appear earnest about the possibility of a party, "it's just... I have two early seminars tomorrow and I should probably go to them. And if we have a party tonight – not that I'm saying it's  _my_  party too, I know I don't live here -"

"You do  _sort_  of live here now," Greg said with a shrug, not appearing to mind in the slightest. "You've bought more food this last week than me and Sherlock have."

"Don't encourage him, Greg," Sherlock muttered, doing up his coat rapidly with his long, dexterous fingers, "he'll think he can get away without paying anything towards the bills forever."

"My point  _is_ ," John said somewhat testily, waving away Sherlock's mutterings with a hand, "I think if you're going to throw a party you should do it on a Friday. Make it a monthly tradition or something – y'know, Greg's awesome Friday night parties. That way no one can complain about seminars the next day and you can expect a bigger turn-out."

Greg appeared to be mulling this over; Sherlock was staring at John in disgust.

"Why would you give him ideas like that, John? You hate crowds just as much as I do! Or has your depression magically gone away  _just in time_?"

Frowning, Greg looked from John to Sherlock, evidently confused. "Just in time? Just in time for what?"

John shot Sherlock an irritated glance before turning his attention to Greg, determined not to let the grumpy genius get to him. "I imagine Sherlock is referring to the fact that we both got our counselling referrals yesterday. I have my initial consultation on Monday, he's got his on Tuesday."

"John isn't particularly looking forward to it," Sherlock whispered  _sotto voce_ , "so he's probably going to have a miraculous recovery any day now."

"Shut up, Sherlock."

" _You_  shut up. Stop telling Greg he can have a party once a month, he'll start getting ideas above his station."

Greg waved his arms. "Um, hello? I'm actually standing right he- wait, what do you mean 'above my station'? What's my station?"

"Oh god," John mumbled, rubbing his hand down his face. "Can we just make a decision so we can get to the supermarket and get some food? Otherwise we won't end up eating 'til late."

Sherlock's voice was barely audible. "We could always just order Thai -"

" _Sherlock -_ "

"All right, guys, all right! I'll make the bloody decision, shall I?" Greg stood in the doorway of the kitchen, staring at them both with exasperated eyes. "Christ, you're like an old married couple..."

The two of them glared at him in harmony; he flinched, stepping backwards into the hall.

"Jeeeesus... all right, don't kill me, fucking hell... right. Right. I'll go with what Mummy John said -" He looked a John, big grin on his face – John began to advance on him, forcing him to take a few more steps backwards, almost tripping over his own feet, " - shit, all right, I meant that I'll throw the party tomorrow. We can just get food in and cook something tonight, quiet night in."

John was still glaring at Greg as he slipped his trainers on and threw on his black jacket; Sherlock stood by his side, casting quick glances down at him with a barely suppressed smirk. After a few more minutes of aimless bickering and both Greg and Sherlock disagreeing over whose taxi firm to call, they all ended up bundling into the back of a cab and on their way to the nearest supermarket, good-natured silence filling the space between them.

**-X-**

John strode into the kitchen with two plastic bags full of food in one hand, throwing his jacket onto the table with the other and shaking his head in almost embarrassed disbelief. "I am never,  _ever_  going shopping with you again, Sherlock.  _Never again._ "

"Oh, calm down," Sherlock's voice came from the hallway, his tone obviously alluding to the idea that John was very much overreacting, "she wasn't that upset. She found it all rather funny in the end."

"No," Greg disagreed, walking into the kitchen with two bags of his own and his coat already off, "she was crying. That's not finding it funny, that's... well. Crying."

Pushing the sleeves of his shirt up his arms and walking over to where John was unpacking a bag full of fresh food, Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly and started putting the food away. "Crying, laughing... either way, at least she was over the shock of the incident."

John pointed a leek in Sherlock's direction, shaking it at him. "Just when I think I'm getting used to you..." He broke off, shaking his head again and turning to grab a knife to start cutting the vegetable up. "I must admit, it makes me feel at least  _mildly_  grateful that you consider me an ally rather than an enemy, which is  _clearly_  how you view everybody else in the universe who isn't within your little bubble of acceptance."

"Everybody is a potential enemy, John. Life's so much more..." Sherlock glanced up from putting the oven on, "...s _atisfying_  that way."

"You're a flipping madman."

"You'll come around to my way of thinking one day," Sherlock promised, leaning across John and plucking a grape from the punnet of fruit waiting to be put away in the fridge; he popped it into his mouth and flashed John a tiny grin, something that John couldn't help but respond to with his own small smile. "Life is  _so_  dull without foes."

"Yeah, well, now they probably won't let you shop there again," Greg said sagely, pulling open the fridge and starting to put away the last bits of shopping. "So don't make too many enemies around here, all right? Otherwise you won't be able to the designated alcohol-getter anymore when I'm too wankered to walk in a straight line, you'll have pissed off too many shop-owners!"

Sherlock allowed his eyes to drift to the ceiling in impatience before flickering his gaze back down to the pack of uncooked chicken breasts in front of him. "I'll try to keep it in mind. Now, what is it I'm doing with these?"

John looked over to see what he was doing. "Where did you put the pesto and mascarpone?"

"I don't know, what did they look like?"

The shorter man sighed, moving around Greg to stand in front of the fridge; he reached in, grabbing the jar of green pesto and the soft cheese. "Like this. The green stuff is the pesto, the white stuff is the mascarpone."

"Right."

John looked up at him. "Do you remember what I said to do?"

"Yes."

"...really?"

Sherlock stared down at the food intently. "I know it had something to do with putting it in the oven. I'm sorry, John, I got distracted."

John rolled his eyes – he'd done that a lot at the supermarket. "No, you just couldn't be bothered to listen. Now look -" he grabbed a knife and cut open the pack of chicken breasts, reaching in and grabbing one, " - you slit it along the side, okay? Then put the mix of pesto and mascarpone -"

"I have to mix them together now?"

There was almost an endearing quality to the way Sherlock asked the question (he sounded genuinely concerned about the idea), enough that John's irritability turned to something softer and he found himself pulling the jar of pesto and the tub of mascarpone towards him. "I can do it if you want."

"No, no, I can do it," Sherlock said hastily, grabbing the jar and opening it. He put it down beside him and then reached for the mascarpone, almost cutting his hand on the knife that John was holding in the process. "Oh, no -"

"Be careful, all right?" John admonished, nudging the mascarpone over to him. "Now. Just get a little bowl and mix them together until it's a nice murky mess of greeny-white and then – are you watching? Right, once you've slit the chicken you just stuff the inside of the hole you made with the pesto and mascarpone mix. When you've done that, put them on the baking tray that Greg – Greg!" John raised his eyebrow at the man who was chowing down on an apple, watching as if it were a show rather than an activity he was supposed to be a part of. "Where's the greased baking tray?"

Greg dropped his apple on the side, hurriedly making his way over to the cupboard next to the oven and pulling out a large, deep baking tray. "Sorry, sorry, got hungry." He started to grease the tray with olive oil, glancing up at John every now and again to make sure he was doing it right – John nodded approvingly, a voice in the back of his head warning him that he was moving closer and closer to being 'Mummy John' with every bit of knowledge he held in the kitchen but not much caring. There was something oddly comforting about their little domesticated scene, even if it  _was_  like directing two children.

Somehow, an hour later, they managed to pull together a dinner that was actually quite tasty. There had been a few moments of panic ("John, I forgot to switch the oven on at the socket." - "John, the chicken smells funny, is it supposed to smell like that?" - "John, the chicken is still pink, should I put it back in?" - "John, the little red light on the oven has gone out, I think I broke it.") and the chicken ended up a little overcooked, but generally speaking it was a dinner that was worth the time it took to make. Greg brought down his television from his bedroom and set it up on the coffee table, connecting up John's laptop to it via HDMI cable and putting on some sort of British black comedy which had both Greg and John chuckling through mouthfuls of food and even had Sherlock briefly smirking from time to time (before realising his fatal error and returning his facial features to a look of mild indifference). Sherlock only had half a chicken breast and a few mouthfuls of rice but, considering he had actually eaten a proper meal the day before, it was an impressive effort and made even better by his rave review of 'it wasn't entirely offensive on my pallet'.

By the time they'd started on a second movie, Greg very gallantly offering to do the washing up (a groan emitting from the kitchen upon his actually going out there and seeing the mess they'd left behind), John was slumped low on the sofa with his favourite grey blanket over him, eyes sleepy but a small content smile on his lips as his eyes followed the movements on the television screen; Sherlock was staring at the screen too, but his eyes were clearly unfocused, not at all into the film. They sat together alone for about ten minutes before Sherlock spoke, interrupting John's concentration of the film.

"I wanted to be a pirate."

John's tired eyes took a bit of cajoling before they managed to drift over to Sherlock's, meeting the glacial eyes of the man across from him with a glimmer of bewilderment. "Hmm? What?"

Sherlock looked away again, back at the screen. "When I was a child I wanted to be a pirate. In my head I was Captain William The Brave with my faithful first mate... Redbeard The Hairy."

John's sleep-desiring head took a while to process this, especially when the film was still trying to penetrate his thoughts and drag him back in; still, he focused hard on the words that Sherlock had spoken and, once he had absorbed them, he found himself staring at the young man like he was an entirely new species. Something like fondness – warm and faintly embarrassing, essentially – spread through his body to the point where a part of him urged his body to reach out and touch Sherlock's wrist, to somehow convey via some sort of physical affection how he was feeling after being told that utterly harmless, endearing bit of information. Naturally, of course, he suppressed this and merely settled for waiting for Sherlock to look back at him. When he did, John gave him a little grin.

"I'll bet you had all kinds of adventures."

Something flickered behind Sherlock's eyes – a wall, perhaps, a quick burst of desire to protect himself from someone who now knew something he considered to be personal information – but John met it head-on; he fought it out with his naturally open, honest gaze of mottled blue-brown, not wavering as he waited for Sherlock to respond, waiting for a reaction whether it would be positive or defensive. He considered over and over the idea of reaching out, literally, but luckily Sherlock finally offered him a response before he had a chance to embarrass himself.

"Mm. Maybe if you get me drunk enough one day I'll indulge you in a few stories."

John smiled sleepily. "I'm taking that as a challenge, y'know."

"Of course you are, John." Sherlock looked away. "I wouldn't expect anything less."


	20. Drink Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hollaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!! Here's a chapter! ENJOY IT!
> 
> Please note: The following includes quite a bit of swearing and some drinking, including drinking games. If that offends you, don't read it. :) It involves a real drinking game, though I've chosen which rules go where so it may not be accurate to any version that you know yourself. I'll supply the rules at the end of the next chapter!

**Chapter Twenty**

The music was so loud in John's ears that he could barely hear whatever it was that Mike was shouting at him, in fact it was a testament to how much of an effort he was trying to make for his friend that he stayed and nodded intently at whatever he was saying rather than striding over to the iPod dock to turn down the pounding beats floating from the speakers. He sipped his drink – pick and mix punch, every time – and let his eyes wander as Mike shouted in his ear, taking in the room and the mass of people within it. Many of them were dancing, girls and guys alike, all of them with some sort of alcoholic beverage in their hands and at least seventy percent of them with the endgame clearly being to find someone to take back to their student room and never see again after the next morning. John had personally never seen the draw, unless you counted Sally Donovan, but he tended not to count her as she was a reaction-shag, a shag to get the girl he had once loved out of his system.

It wasn't really about desire at all.

He caught the sound of raucous laughter from the kitchen, Greg clearly having a great time with what John (correctly) assumed to be a group of mostly drunken girls; the man definitely had some sort of  _something_  which appealed to girls, most likely his cheeky grin and undeniable good looks, though that wasn't to say he didn't have a decent personality. The truth was that Greg was surprisingly selfless, incredibly accepting and horizontally laid-back, three things that made him charming as fuck and always guaranteed to take a girl home (or keep her there as the case would be tonight). Poor Sherlock. The walls weren't too bad but they definitely weren't quite thick enough to keep the girls from making their presence known during sex. Sherlock had already inferred to John that he spent the times when Greg had a girl in his room downstairs instead in order to avoid having to listen to it, distracting himself with experiments and research.

_~Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz~_

Speaking of Sherlock...

John pulled his phone from his pocket, raising a finger to the still-shouting Mike and reading the text quickly:

* * *

 

_**William:** _

_On a scale of one to ten, how inebriated are you at this moment in time?_

* * *

 

Sherlock, not one for the masses of people at parties, had struck a deal with both John and Greg: in exchange for one hour of his time being spent at the party he was allowed to spend the rest of it upstairs in his room, during which time he was not to be disturbed by anybody. He was also allowed to choose which hour he would spend downstairs. So far he had spent two and a half hours hiding and no time whatsoever within the company of other people.

_That depends... what's a 10?_

Mike grabbed his arm as he sent the text, pointing eagerly at someone over by the doorway. John followed his finger and saw a girl standing there clutching a plastic cup and looking nervous; she had mousey-blonde hair and was rather thin, carrying a subtle sort of prettiness that John could appreciate. She actually looked a little like Sarah. He nodded his appreciation to Mike.

"SHE'S THE ONE WHO GAVE ME HER NUMBER AT THE FIRST PARTY!" Mike had leaned in closer as if to whisper a secret, yet his yelled just as loud as he had been yelling before... still, at least John could hear him now. "WE'VE BEEN TEXTING LOADS AND SHE PROMISED SHE'D COME TONIGHT!"

"WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?" John shouted back, trying for an encouraging smile. "GO DANCE WITH HER OR SOMETHING BEFORE SHE FINDS SOMEONE BETTER!"

_~Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz~_

Mike punched him on the shoulder a little too hard, grinning wildly at him. "I'LL SEE YOU LATER, THEN! OR MAYBE NOT!" He crossed his fingers, John laughing for his benefit and watching as his best friend made his way over to the girl; as soon as she spotted Mike her face lit up, a pleased smile filling her face and making her suddenly ten times more attractive – yes, Mike had found himself a decent one there. Lucky git. John was about as far away from getting close to a girl as... well. Maybe not Sherlock. That was a bit of an exaggeration.

Remembering the text message, he unlocked his screen:

* * *

 

_**William:** _

_Well, as you've managed to respond you're definitely not a ten just yet. I'm going to assume that after two and a half hours, one round of the Deadly Three and perhaps three cups of punch you're currently a... five. Possibly a six._

* * *

 

John rolled his eyes. Trust him to know exactly what he had consumed.

_I'm not even a 4. All right, maybe a 4. But not a 5, and definitely nowhere near a 6._

William's response was ridiculously quick:

* * *

 

_**William:** _

_We'll see about that._

* * *

 

Instantly John shoved his phone into his jeans pocket and began to weave his way around the dancing bodies, dodging the hands which tried to grab him and encourage him to join the masses, cheers and whoops of the friends he only seemed to have when they were drunk following him as he slipped past Mike (rather feverishly kissing the blonde girl in the doorway) and managed to manoeuvre himself into the hallway. He felt a small glimmer of triumph in his chest as he watched a very bored-looking Sherlock thank the people sitting on the stairs rather sarcastically for moving out of his way, the tall genius sighing quietly to himself before turning to face the living room and therefore John; their eyes met and John felt the alcohol force his lips into a genuine smile.

Sherlock did not smile back as he walked to meet him. "An entire hour?"

"Yes, that was the deal," John said firmly, jerking his head towards the kitchen and indicating that Sherlock should follow him. "And you have to drink  _something_  alcoholic."

Sherlock stopped dead, narrowing his eyes at the back of John's head. "No. That was not part of the deal."

John turned. "Look at it this way, okay? You're about to spend an hour with people you care nothing about and you have to at least look vaguely interested in whatever they're saying -"

"That wasn't part of the deal either."

Sighing, John shrugged. "If you're not going to even act like you want to be here you might as well have stayed upstairs!"

Triumph flitted across Sherlock's face. "Ah, how right you are. Well, I'll just head back up -" He turned to leave but John had already anticipated his move, reaching out and grabbing Sherlock by the arm.

"Not so fast, Sherlock McSpeedy – we agreed an hour and you're going to give us an hour, all right?" He let go of Sherlock's arm as his friend turned back around and revealed a sulky expression so familiar that John couldn't help but have to suppress a grin. "We're going to go in there, have a few drinks and you're going to get buzzed enough that you might even enjoy yourself. Agreed?"

"Hmmph. Let's not exaggerate."

"Come on," he said encouragingly, indicating that now Sherlock had to go ahead of him, "you can try a cup of pick and mix punch and chat to me and Greg. It doesn't have to be as painful as you're expecting it to be."

**\- X -**

Ten minutes later he realised his mistake: it was always going to be painful. Now Sherlock was giving him sidelong glances so murderous that he was genuinely surprised he hadn't been stabbed in the hip.

There were nine of them in all, nine young adults crammed around the kitchen table like sardines, each of them staring at the currently empty pint glass in the middle of the table as Greg spread out not one but  _two_  packs of cards around it with a massive grin on his face; he'd been grinning like that since Sherlock had walked into the room. It was now obvious to John that this had been his plan all along: no matter what time Sherlock had descended the stairs, Greg would have initiated a drinking game and Sherlock would have to join it. Greg's plan was clearly to get Sherlock absolutely  _wankered_.

"You swore, John," Sherlock muttered, the arm pressed up against John (they were sitting side-by-side, though with the amount of people trying to fit around the table they might as well have been sharing the same chair) tensing visibly beneath his deep purple shirt, "you swore we would never play drinking games together."

"I'm sorry, all right?" John wasn't sorry. He was tipsy enough that he actually found it all rather amusing. "It's Greg's fault, not mine, so stop glaring at me like that. It's only for another fifty minutes, then you can bugger off back upstairs and sulk some more."

Sherlock balked as someone placed an empty pint glass in front of him. "What's this for?"

"Well. It's a drinking game. You have to drink. What do you want?"

"Red wine."

"No," John said without hesitation, shaking his head. "No, if you drink wine you'll end up throwing up within half an hour."

"Ugh." Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Water, then."

"Sherlock. You have to drink  _alcohol_."

"Brandy?"

"Oh god," John moaned, grabbing Sherlock's glass for him and gesturing to the girl opposite him. "Could you pass me the vodka? And some lemonade?"

"I don't like vod-"

"You've never bloody had it," Greg intercepted as he passed John the spirit himself, grinning gleefully down at the curly-haired man, "so just give it a go, all right? You can barely taste it, you'll be fine."

Sherlock glanced from the glass that John was filling up for him to John's own cup. "What about him? He's only got a tiny cup, that's not fair."

"Calm down, he's getting a glass just as big as yours." As if to prove it, Greg slammed a glass full of something clear in front of John. "Sambuca and lemonade. Enjoy."

It was John's turn to shoot a murderous glance, this one aimed directly at Sherlock's smug-looking housemate. "How much sambuca did you put in this, Greg? I thought I said last time that under no circumstances are you to pour my drinks for me ever again."

"Chill out, mate, it's all good!"

"Doesn't answer my question..." John muttered, lifting the glass to his nose and giving it a sniff; good god, it was definitely at least a quarter full of alcohol. There was quarter of a pint of sambuca in this glass. Greg was trying to kill him. "Sherlock, I apologise in advance because I'm going to be absolutely hamm-" He turned, words trailing as he watched Sherlock drain his entire glass. "Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?!"

Sherlock looked at him as if he were stupid, his arm rubbing awkwardly against John's as he put the glass back down on the table, licking his lips. "There are a lot of people in the room, John, it's very warm in here. I was thirsty."

John did not miss the demonic bark of laughter from Greg – god, it was all planned. The man was insane. "You do realise there was alcohol in that glass?"

"You should be more concerned with the 35:65 ratio of sambuca to lemonade in  _your_  glass rather than worrying about the 20:80 vodka to lemonade in mine, John."

John eyed his glass suspiciously. "35:65?"

"Almost definitely." Sherlock began refilling his own glass, sighing as he poured in the vodka. "This really is a complete waste of my time, you know."

"Just  _try_  and have a good time."

"Very unlikely."

"RIGHT THEN!" Greg bellowed, extending his arms wide and grinning like a maniac down at the little crowd around the table. "I know for a fact we have some newbies at the table who've never played Ring of Fire before, so we  _may_  have to be a little patient with some people and a bit pushy with others." He flashed a pointed look in Sherlock's direction. "If you've played before, great, just announce what your card means as you pick it up so that our newbies can start learning and... well, no, that's about it! Can't be arsed to be picky about who goes first so I'll just go..."

The table watched as he wedged himself between the two girls sitting opposite Sherlock and John and leaned forward, sliding a card out from the fan around the pint glass. He pulled it out with a flourish, turning it slowly to face him.

His eyes sparkled.

"Well, whaddya know? Eight! Eight, as most of us know, is  _Mate_ , which means that  _I_  get to choose someone to take a drink. Hmmm." His index finger and thumb came to rest on his jaw, eyes swivelling around the circle as he pretended to think. "Whoooo shall I pick?  _Who_  shall I  _pick_?"

John knew where this was going.

Poor Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" Greg held the card up so that it faced the unimpressed-looking genius. "You're new to this: take a drink!"

"I assume a 'drink' is equal to a sip?" Sherlock asked no one in particular, picking up his glass, looking infinitely bored. "Very well, if I must..." He took the tiniest sip, grimacing as he did so.

Greg wasn't having any of it. "It's not a bloody cocktail, Sherlock. You take a gulp, not a sip."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock lifted the glass to his lips again. "Dear lord. This is fun, is it?"

John hid his grin behind his glass. "It will be if it carries on like this..."

"Hmm?" Sherlock finished his gulp, shuddering and putting the glass back on the table, turning his head slightly to the left to look at his friend. "What was that, John? You were mumbling, you know I can't stand it when you mumble."

"RIGHT!" Greg was clearly determined to keep things moving. "Lauren, you next." He grinned at the girl to his left, gesturing. "Go for it."

She slid a card out, looking at it before showing the rest of the table. "Ace. That's... the Dirty Pint, right?"

Greg nodded, the all-knowing drinking-game King. "For those who don't know, the Dirty Pint is the pint glass in the middle. Every time you pick up an Ace, you add some of  _your_  drink to the glass. The person who picks out the last Ace at the end has to drink it."

As Lauren added some of her pink drink to the glass, Sherlock sighed and began to mutter to John. "I'm not drinking that. If I get the Ace, you have to drink it for me."

"Like  _hell_  I am!"

The next card picked was a seven. The boy holding it quickly pointed to the ceiling. "Seven is  _Heaven_!"

Everyone around the table quickly pointed their fingers to the ceiling, some laughter as the slightly more inebriated of the group took a little more time to realise what was going on; Sherlock's hands remained around his glass, brow furrowed, looking completely bemused.

Greg's grin grew so wide that John was moderately concerned it would fall off of his face. "Sherlock, you're the last one to point – take a drink!"

His frown deepened. "Excuse me?"

"Seven is  _Heaven_  - if you pull out a seven everyone has to point to the ceiling and the last one to do it has to take a drink."

The noise Sherlock made in the back of his throat was so full of derision that John had to replay Greg's words in his head just to make sure he hadn't suggested shooting a kitten; nope, totally legit. Sherlock did not pick up his glass. "That is probably one of the most ridiculous things I've ever heard in my life, not owing just to the fact that Heaven is a construct-"

"Just take the drink, Sherlock," John interrupted, knowing that people would only put up with his smart-arse comments for so long, "the more you drink the less you'll care, trust me."

Sherlock's arm rubbed against his again as he lifted his glass. "I'm not sure I should be listening to you. You're already drunk."

"Take the bloody drink," Greg said impatiently, "and then you can be drunk together and save us a lot of hassle by looking after each other. Take the drink so we can get on with the game!"

Rolling his eyes in the most patronising way possible, Sherlock lifted the glass to his lips and took a few sips. Every pair of eyes watched him closely, not looking away until they were each satisfied that he had had enough to drink; Greg was the last to look away, motioning for the next person to go.

"All right, let's keep it going, yeah?"

The next two people went, revealing a King (all the guys had to take a gulp) and a Nine ( _Rhyme_ , where the person who selected the card had to say a rhyming couplet and each person around the circle had to add a line until someone paused for too long, at which point they had to take a drink) – it was unsurprising to John and Greg (and probably the rest of the circle) that Sherlock was the one to drop the ball on  _Rhyme_ , again proclaiming the rule to be ridiculous though at least this time he picked up his glass without having to be asked. All of the cards selected so far other than the Ace had led to Sherlock having to take a drink and, as John knew from experience, the drunker an individual became the harder it became to avoid the consequences. If Sherlock continued down the road he was heading down... well. He'd be fucked by the time he crawled up to his bedroom.

"I assume it's my turn now?" Sherlock's fingers fluttered over the cards, resting on one directly in front of them. "Do I just choose any?"

John nodded. "Go for it."

The genius slid a card from the masses, dragging it with his fingertips to the edge of the table and flipping it over only as it threatened to fall into his lap. He stared at it for a moment before shrugging, turning it around so that the rest of the group could see. "Ten. What does that mean?"

The entire table groaned. The guy next to John uttered a very emphatic 'fuck'.

"Ten is  _Waterfall_ ," Greg said, shaking his head back and forth regretfully. "Ten is the card we all love to hate."

"Which means...?"

John took the card from him, staring at it mournfully. "Everyone has to drink their drink non-stop until you stop drinking yours."

A look of interest flickered over Sherlock's impassive face. "So... I drink my drink for as long as I like... and you all have to drink until I stop? What if someone stops before I do?"

The girl opposite Sherlock, Lauren, answered. "They have to finish their drink entirely."

A thrill of apprehension wrapped itself around John's spine as he caught out of the corner of his eye the tiny grin that flitted over Sherlock's full lips; oh, christ. The last thing anyone should do during a drinking game is give Sherlock power – no, scratch that, you should never give him power of  _any_ kind. But during a drinking game?

Greg met his eyes from across the table. Clearly he was thinking the same thing.

"Well then." Sherlock lifted his glass as if toasting, his eyes drifting quickly around the table and lingering momentarily on a now nervous-looking John: that tiny grin again, the thrill of apprehension shooting down the shorter man's spine. "Bottoms up, everyone."

So, they drank. Every person around the table raised their glasses to their lips, swallowing the tiniest amounts possible and watching each other intently to be aware of cheaters, of losers, eyes constantly swerving back to rest on Sherlock who was clearly not an idiot and had every intention of dragging it out for as long as possible. There was an almost-moan from John's left as a girl stared in panic at her near-empty glass, knowing as she did that if she ran out of drink she would lose and would have to force down a whole pint of an entirely new drink afterwards, an idea that would be terrifying to anyone considering they had barely been playing for longer than fifteen minutes; John felt a burst of sympathy but an even stronger burst of hope, seeing his still half-full glass and thinking for the first time that he might just make it -

_Warm fingertips brushed over his knee._

Half of his current mouthful sprayed out of his lips onto the cards and people in front of him before he could even process what had happened; he heard a vocalisation escape from his throat, something of a protest and a swearword, almost 'fuck, Sherlock' but closer to just wordless noise. The people in front of John shrieked and shielded themselves, shock and amusement travelling around the circle in a sort of Mexican wave as everyone started putting down their drinks and wiping their mouths, relief and mirth echoed in their laughter – John slammed the glass down on the table, hand flying up to cover his mouth as he started to cough, eyes watering as the sambuca lodged itself into every crevice in this throat and burning.

Beside him, Sherlock calmly put down his own drink and removed his hand from John's leg, placing it on the table in front of them.

Still coughing, John stared at the hand that had touched him.

"John, you absolute  _cockmonkey_!" Greg cried, grabbing a bunch of napkins and rubbing them over his face to get rid of the lemonade-and-sambuca-mouthful that had been projected over him – funnily enough, it seemed that he had suffered the worst out of everyone. "Stop choking and finish your bloody drink, you absolute  _arse_!"

Just about managing to control the coughing, John managed to croak out a series of words quietly to the man sitting beside him.

"You absolute fucking  _bastard,_ you did that so I would lose."

Sherlock's voice responded so quietly and in such a low voice that John had to strain to hear him. "If you insist on getting me drunk then I'm afraid that I have no choice but to exact revenge in whatever way I possibly can in such a limited situation. In this case it would appear I'm going to make you suffer via alcohol quite as much as I imagine I will."

John raised his eyes from the hand and found Sherlock's intense eyes fixed on him.

The tiny, dangerous grin flickered to life once more as Sherlock glanced away and to the cards in front of them, calm, serene even. When he spoke, it was in his normal voice once more, loud enough for everyone else to hear.

"Drink up, John. We've got a long game ahead of us."


	21. In My Pants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if the drinking games confused/confuse anyone. They are bloody confusing and I've suffered at the hands of this particular one many a time. Ugh. Anyway, enjoy this chapter! :D

**Chapter Twenty-One**

A long game it was indeed.

The other players around the table soon caught on to Greg's master-plan and began allocating all of their  _Mate_  cards to Sherlock, the dark-haired man seemingly indifferent as he swallowed gulp after gulp of vodka and lemonade, refilling his drink and continuing as if he were quite unaffected. To John's relief, Sherlock did not get the  _Waterfall_  card again, managing to avoid Sherlock's cruel hand of destruction on his knee, though they all soon discovered Sherlock's disturbingly acute observation skills when the  _Thumb Master_  card appeared multiple times; every time someone got the card and a few minutes subtly put their thumb on the table he was always the first one to notice, a roll of his eyes and continuing mutters of 'amateurs' on his lips alerting them all as he placed his own thumb on the table. Luckily it seemed that the girls were worst at this one, far more intoxicated than anyone else at the table and often erupting in fits of giggles every time one of them lost out and had to take a drink.

Unfortunately, John was already rather drunk and therefore vulnerable to failure; taking this joyfully into account, Greg held the number two aloft triumphantly and pointed directly at him as he announced:

"Two –  _Link_. John, I'm linking you to Sherlock. For those who have no idea what that means, Sherlock will now have to take a drink whenever John does. Same goes for John whenever Sherlock has to take a drink. In other words," a big, drunken grin plastered itself over his face, "they are both 100% FUCKED."

Sherlock glanced at John, his low mutter falling into the space between them. "I'm holding you personally responsible if I end up vomiting tonight, John Watson."

John shook his head helplessly. "Blame Greg, not me! I swear, he has a fetish for inflicting drunken pain..."

"No." Sherlock allowed a tiny grin as he willingly took a sip of his drink, proof if any that he was actually a little drunk and no longer bothered that every drink took him closer to full inebriation. "It's more entertaining to blame you. The look of panic on your face is just priceless."

"Fuck off."

The next half an hour was deadly. Sherlock actually laughed when he extracted a three –  _Me_  – and had to take a drink himself, taking obvious pleasure in John's deep groan as he too had to take a drink... John was starting to consider the idea that Sherlock was in fact a sadist, utterly intent to send him into oblivion with the sheer amount of alcohol he was consuming. The only positive that John could see so far was that after having to down his sambuca and lemonade for his first  _Waterfall_  consequence he now had power over how much alcohol went into his drinks and was being very sparse indeed, the ratio leaning far more towards soft drink than spirit. Sherlock noticed this instantly, a little aside to him when everyone was distracted:

"Tut tut. I thought you enjoyed a challenge."

"I must do," John half-whispered back, smile twitching on his numb lips, "I'm your friend, aren't I?"

"That remains to be seen after tonight."

The two of them shared a grin.

A guy beside John pulled out the first Jack of the evening. "Jack! Ha!  _New-_ fucking _-Rule._ "

Sherlock raised his eyebrow. "Which means...?"

The boy grinned at him openly, obviously completely and utterly wasted. "I get to come up with a rule that will hopefully ruin every single person around this table."

"Oh," Sherlock said, moderate interest flashing over his face, "I like that card. I hope I get that card."

"No," John moaned quietly, "no, never. Too much power."

"The new rule is..." The boy thought about it for a moment, leaning his chin on his glass. "Hmm. Oh! All right! Everyone has to add  _"in my pants"_  to the end of every sentence they say. For example... I am rather fucked right now...  _in my pants._ "

A laugh echoed around the table, the girls in particular giggling to themselves at the potential double-meaning; Greg put his arm around the girl called Lauren, murmuring something to her that was no doubt utterly indecent and would likely lead to Sherlock spending the night downstairs. Sherlock did not miss it, rolling his pale blue-green eyes and taking a sip of his drink.

"And I assume the consequence for not doing so is having to take a drink, as usual?" He sighed. "How  _original_."

Greg's entire face lit up with mirth as the rest of the table tittered at Sherlock's obvious ignorance. "Sherlock, you utter  _twat_  – take a fucking drink and stick to the rules...  _in my pants_."

Sherlock looked as if he'd eaten a stinging nettle. "I wasn't aware the rule had started  _already_..."

Laughter around the table again, John groaning for what felt like the millionth time that day as he lifted his drink to his lips – damn the  _Link_ card, damn it to hell. "Sherlock, stop..." He grimaced. " _...in my pants._ "

A vaguely amused smile flitted over the genius's features. "All right John, calm down...  _in my pants_." The amusement quickly transformed into undisguised distaste. "This really is completely ridiculous, we're like bloody children..."

The whole table stared at him, practically holding their breath.

"... _in my pants._ "

Both Sherlock and John took their two consequential drinks.

As the game continued, John began to discover something happening the more and more he had to drink. He of course had two people either side of him – a guy who was blatantly an ardent smoker on his left and, naturally, Sherlock on his right-hand side. Both of them were wedged in just as tightly as he was, the sides of their bodies pressed against his enough that after a while and enough alcohol it seemed as if they were simply an additional limb, no longer bothering him... or, at least, that was the effect the guy to his left was having. Disturbingly, the effect seemed to be reversed for the man on his right. The more alcohol John consumed, the burning sambuca leaving a seemingly permanent lick of heat down his chest at every sip, the more aware he was of Sherlock's body mashed against his, warm from the amount of bodies in one room and the increasing amount of alcohol that was coursing through both of their veins. Every time Sherlock moved his arm John felt a zing of friction from the material of Sherlock's shirt against his bare arm – he had wisely chosen to wear a simple black t-shirt that night, knowing how hot it would get in the little house – and became rather highly aware of the way his hairs reacted to the contact, standing on end for a few moments before settling once more over his skin.

As he laughed and sipped and groaned his way through the everlasting game, he found himself waiting for those movements. He caught himself staring at Sherlock's arm from time to time, once even glancing up to find Sherlock looking at him in a covert sideways glance, John's cheeks instantly on fire and his eyes darting away, a laugh bubbling from his throat as he threw himself into interacting with the game as enthusiastically as possible so as not to let on that he was feeling rather odd and actually finding the pressure of Sherlock's arm on his... well, sort of  _nice._ What was even more concerning was that it didn't feel as if it were a weird sensation to have Sherlock so close and to actually enjoy it, the alcohol numbing his usual instincts to avoid all personal space invasions and instead inviting him to welcome it.

It had been so long since physical contact had been something enjoyable.

He threw his awkward drunken thoughts away from him as far as possible and concentrated as much as possible on the game instead, and god knew it was necessary – Sherlock had finally pulled a  _Link_  card and started to exact his revenge on Greg, selecting him to be linked to John and therefore himself. After that the genius took no care whatsoever in avoiding consequences, somehow 'missing' the latest  _Thumb-Master_  and pressing his lips together in false regret as he lifted his glass and stared over the rim at Greg's dismayed expression, taking a gulp and laughing throatily as Greg did the same – the murderous glances were all over the place now, especially once Greg realised Sherlock no longer cared about consequences and was playing merely to seek justice against the two friends who had forced him into the game in the first place. The others around the table were enjoying this so much that they began to create  _New Rule's_ just to screw over the three of them, insisting that along with  _in my pants_  there was to be no eye-rolling and no sarcasmS.

As a Queen –  _Women Drink –_ surfaced, Sherlock spoke quietly so that only John would hear him.

"I think we can safely assume that you're currently at least a seven...  _in my pants."_

John grunted, moving his hand until it knocked against Sherlock's glass. "Shut up and drink more, then, 'cos if I'm a seven then you have to at least be a four and that's obviously not fair  _in my pants_."

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, the movement again making the hairs on John's arm stand on end. "I'm just better at hiding it than you,  _in my pants._ " Since more rules had come into play the both of them had taken greater care at least to remember the initial one. "You have to remember, John, I haven't had the drinking experience that you have  _in my pants._ " He almost smirked. "I promise you that it's having a rather profound effect on me...  _in my pants_."

Greg's voice floated across the table to them. "All right, you two, stop flirting with each other  _in my pants_. I just got a six which, as we all know by now, is  _Dare_.  _In my pants_."

"So make us drink already," John said with a sigh, slowly lifting his glass to ready himself, "because apparently we haven't already done enough of that  _in my pants_. Seriously, pick something else for a dare for once – you'll only damage yourself even more.  _In my pants_."

Lauren leaned across to Greg, eyes sparkling as she whispered something into his ear with blatant glee; Sherlock's housemate leaned away from her slowly afterwards, a grin spreading over his lips as he nodded, looking as if Christmas had come early.

A fast mutter came from beside him, Sherlock's lips barely moving. "He's going to make us hold hands for the rest of the game. I won't be offended if you refuse."

A inexplicable flutter in John's stomach made him feel suddenly both confused and a little ill; he forced himself to remain casual, taking a small sip of his drink as he whispered back as subtly as possible. "Why do you say that?"

Sherlock too lifted his glass to his lips, masking their movement. "It hasn't escaped my notice how you've been reacting to our proximity, John. I merely assumed that holding hands would be even more uncomfortable for you."

The revelation that Sherlock was not as ignorant to the situation as John had hoped made the flutter in his stomach erupt into fully-fledged butterflies. He shook his head, head starting to spin as he tried to focus. "No, I – I meant why do you think he's going to make us do that? I haven't been... I'm not reacting..." He was struggling, no longer able to hide the fact that he was speaking – the alcohol was ridiculously potent in his veins, too potent. "I haven't reacted to anything."

"Raised body temperature," Sherlock murmured back, shifting slightly; the movement against John's arm was more pronounced and deliberate than it had been for the entirety of the evening. John looked quickly to his side, seeing Sherlock watching him from the corner of his eye.  _Shit_. "Pulse slightly erratic." Sherlock glanced away again, taking another calm sip of his drink. "Dilated pupils."

Without warning John was swept up in a memory of weeks previous:

" _Oh please, you've never felt better. Look at you, you're the epitome of 'jacked up' just from climbing through a window."_

" _That's fear, Sherlock, not enjoyment!"_

" _Liar. Elevated heart-rate, dilated pupils, rapid breathing -"_

" _All symptoms of fear."_

" _And enjoyment. Don't deny it, you feel more alive right now than you have since you started university. Possibly even before."_

" _Fear."_

" _Enjoyment."_

John gripped his glass tight in his hand, unable to grasp what was going on and not sure even in his drunken state that he wanted to.

He didn't have a chance to decide.

"All right boys," Greg said with a massive shit-eating grin, folding his arms as he leaned back and fixed his vengeful eyes on them both (when had he started blaming John for Sherlock's sadism?!), "Loz and I have decided that for the rest of the game you have to hold hands  _in my pants_. We've agreed that if you break this dare at any point, you have to drink whatever concoction we put together for you without complaint,  _in my pants_. If you refuse the dare now -" He hesitated for a moment, for the first time looking as if he wasn't too sure, " - well, this is Lauren's addendum, not mine, trust me on that...  _in my pants._  If you refuse then you have to... kiss.  _In my pants._ "

John let go of his glass and began to shake his head violently, not having it, not one bit. "I'm not fucking kissing him, Greg, I am  _not_  going to kiss Sherlock."

Sherlock muttered from his side. " _In my pants_."

"In my pants."

Greg shrugged helplessly, the girl beside him grinning so wickedly that for a moment John deduced that she was probably absolutely perfect for the asshole opposite them and that they should get married the next morning without argument. "Sorry, guys. She convinced me.  _In my pants._ "

"I'll bet she did," John mumbled, burying his face in his hands. "Christ alive. Thanks a lot, Sherlock, the gay rumours have finally come back to bite me on the arse."

"In my pa-"

" _In my fucking pants!"_

Lauren put her hands out in front of her, almost as if offering each option on each palm. "Well then, boys – which is it going to be,  _in my pants?_ "

Sherlock didn't even give John a chance to argue or choose, the sigh that escaped his lips revealing his signature impatience with all things pointless as per usual; he reached across with his left hand and placed it over the top the curled, tensed fist which rested on the table between them, his long fingers moving gently to lay still over John's smaller ones, the warmth from his large palm exerting just the smallest amount of pressure and feeling so incredibly inoffensive that all John could do was watch as it settled itself on top of his hand and then lay perfectly still.

He could not bring himself to look up.

"That's not holding hands," Lauren said with a snort, shaking her pretty head back and forth; she grabbed Greg's hand and laced her fingers with his, grasping it tightly and looking pointedly at the two hands opposite her, " _this_  is holding hands,  _in my pants_."

Sherlock sighed again. "I wasn't aware that there was a universal standard. My hand is on his and our hands are therefore touching, you could in fact say that my hand, cupped as it is over John's, is  _holding_  his. Can we simply agree to disagree and move on?" The next words he said were so perfectly enunciated that John could barely believe that the man beside him was drunk at all. " _In my pants_?"

The entire table stared at him. Greg eyed the two of them closely through his haze of inebriation, seemingly on the edge of something as his eyes began to narrow, his lips separating, mind looking as if it were going into overdrive... but he stopped himself. His lips closed, his eyes opened back up properly and he cleared his throat, bringing the attention back to him.

"All right gang, we're going to just assume that this counts, all right?  _In my pants_. Keep an eye on them though, the minute their hands separate we'll make them a drink so bad their eyes'll water.  _In my pants._ God, can we cancel out that rule any time soon?"

As the rest of the group laughed and resumed the game, Lauren taking a card, Sherlock glanced sideways at John. "Are you all right?"

John finally pulled his eyes off of the table and looked his friend in the eye; it was difficult, though this was mostly down to how suddenly the alcohol seemed to be affecting his vision. "Mm? Yes, of course I'm all right. Of course."

Sherlock's gaze did not move. "I had assumed you'd prefer this to their other consequence."

Suddenly something struck John, a truth that he hadn't actually considered until that moment – his brow creased, his head turning to face Sherlock properly as his mind started to clunk slowly. "Hang on, that's a point..."

"What is?"

"Never in your life have you followed through with something just because someone told you to." He waited to see if Sherlock would respond to that statement alone; he didn't. "And yet here you are, playing a drinking game  _based_  on instructed consequences which not only has led to you being... well,  _apparently_  drunk -"

"I assure you, I am rather intoxicated."

" - but also means that we are now holding hands because  _Greg Lestrade_  told us to."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed the tiniest bit. "And?"

John stared at him incredulously, not at all paying attention to the game anymore. "What's it all about? What's in it for you?"

Without warning Sherlock turned his body to face John properly, legs moving to push roughly against his and face coming close enough that John could smell the lemonade, feel the heat of his breath and taste the vodka; Sherlock's wintry eyes did not move from his face as his knee slid between John's, shoulders bumping lightly against one another.

His whisper was hot against John's cheek.

"An hour and fifteen minutes ago you challenged me to get drunk and enjoy myself; naturally I was sceptical and unwilling yet I had made a deal with you to spend an hour at the party and therefore my only choices were to either detach myself from you and spend my time being rubbed against by strangers or to join you and Greg in a game so utterly ridiculous that I'm still somewhat amazed that I didn't leave fifteen minutes ago. Seeing as how you were so certain that enjoyment would come alongside inebriation I chose to go along with the rules of the game regardless of how idiotic they were, not to mention that this is most certainly the lesser of two evils and at least in this instance I can exact my revenge on the two of you for insisting I come downstairs and join this cesspit of a party when I would have been quite happy staying in my room for the entire evening."

John's mind was spinning. "Right, okay..."

"So in fact it makes no difference to me that I'm drunk and holding your hand, because it is still the lesser of two evils regardless of the consequences. Plus, naturally, you challenged me. Of course I had to go through with it."

John blinked slowly, his whole body feeling numb. "Mm."

Sherlock's eyes glittered. "But here's an interesting thought: you had nothing to prove whatsoever tonight, did you? You could've just had a few drinks, laughed with some of the strangers in the living room, refused a few consequences and walked away from the table without any regrets or sense of failure. You would have undoubtedly enjoyed yourself regardless."

He didn't understand. "Okay, but... I'm confused."

"You were clearly uncomfortable with our proximity tonight John, holding hands or not – the symptoms I pointed out to you earlier were clear as day and even you yourself were probably not unaware of them... in fact, from the way you kept looking at me, I'm almost certain that your heightened awareness covered both the sensations and the reactions, correct?" He did not wait for John to say either way. "So, back to an old argument: enjoyment or fear?"

John closed his eyes. "Neither."

Sherlock laughed quietly, breath warm and full over John's skin. " _Enjoyment_. But either way, that's neither here nor there, it's not entirely relevant. The point is that you could have left at any time if it were bothering you, yet you didn't, you waited for it, quite obviously too. Your glances weren't as subtle as you'd hoped. Then of course that leads us to now, with my hand on yours and barely any argument from you whatsoever let alone actually physically moving away... very interesting, very interesting indeed. So really, John, perhaps you should ask your question again but change it so that it's directed towards  _yourself_."

Christ, he was too drunk for this. "Ask... what?"

"The question, John. The one you asked me. But ask it as if you were asking yourself."

John forced himself to think back, squinting his eyes and looking away until he could pull back the memory and realign the words on his tongue. "Oh."

"Go on then."

John licked his lips, a burst of nerves sparking in his stomach for reasons he could not even outline. "What's it all about? What's in it for... me?"

Sherlock's gaze darkened, fingers pressing down gently on John's. "You tell me."


	22. Cuddler

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's only a baby one... ENJOY IT ANYWAY LOVE YOU THANK YOU OK BYE <3

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

John lay in the dark of Sherlock and Greg's sitting room, blankets kicked off as his blood fought against the alcohol in his system and made him feel as if he were trying to sleep in a very dark sauna – god, he was hot. And drunk.

_What's it all about? What's in it for me?_

And confused.

Bloody Sherlock and all of his bloody drunken deducing and gazing and touching his knee, deliberately brushing against John's arm (which, as he had told John later, he had done on purpose  _every time_  after he'd noticed the reaction it was getting), holding his hand and, finally, forcing him to ask himself a question that he didn't even have an answer to. And why would he have an answer to it? There was nothing to be gained from any of it. John had simply put up with it all because he was having fun with his friends and was actually enjoying watching Sherlock attempt to be sociable.

The way John saw it, there could be several possibilities afoot here: one, that Sherlock was a total and utter bastard and just wanted to play with John like a toy for his own amusement in revenge for making him get drunk and socialise; two, that Sherlock had consumed far too much alcohol and was (unimaginably) an affectionate drunk who had got carried away with himself and would wake up the next morning feeling like a complete arse; or three… that somehow Sherlock genuinely believed, for whatever reason, that John had feelings for him, feelings which stretched beyond the normal realms of friendship and into something completely and utterly  _impossible._  What made it even more awkward was that  _in the very least_  both Mycroft and Greg thought that something was going on between himself and Sherlock, and only because bloody Sherlock had been the one to start the whole charade in the first place… but John had gone along with it. He had gone along with it because he had seen how desperately Sherlock had initially needed to take Mycroft down a peg or two, his own personal feelings towards the oldest Holmes brother also being a fairly strong mitigating factor – at the time he was running so high on his anger that he'd had no issue with playing along.

Of course, the moment Sherlock had blasted him with a mass of confusing thoughts and drunken protests the bloody bugger had disappeared upstairs for the rest of the night, leaving John to deal with a big glass of sambuca/tequila/lemonade/something green to drink as a consequence.

He had questions for his friend. Luckily for John, Sherlock was sitting in the armchair next to him, waiting.

Unable to force himself to sit up for fear of making his head spin even more than it already was, John stared up at the ceiling above him and tried to form the right words to fall out of his mouth.

"Are they still having sex?"

"Yes."

Greg had taken Lauren upstairs half an hour before the last guests had started to leave. They'd been up there for two and a half hours. "Christ."

Sherlock's voice was slightly slurred in the darkness, seemingly more drunk than he had been during Ring of Fire; John supposed that the alcohol had finally caught up with him after drinking so much in such a short space of time. "Is that really what you were so desperate to ask me? I was under the impression that you had more to say, or at least that's what I assumed from all your fidgeting and huffing."

John huffed a little more. "I'm not huffing."

"Yes you are."

"All right, a bit."

He could hear the small smile in Sherlock's voice. "More than a bit."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, the ticking of the clock in the dining room highlighting the space of time in which neither of them spoke; John couldn't tell if it was awkward or not. More frustratingly, he had no idea what Sherlock was thinking or what his motivations behind everything that evening had been and he knew that without actually asking aloud he would never know the answer. The question the man had asked him to ask himself –  _what's in it for me? –_ it was just too bloody confusing and full of the sort of insinuation that made John feel more than a little uncomfortable.

Was he just making a big deal out of absolutely nothing?

"You think  _so_  loudly, John. Why don't you just ask me?"

John shifted slightly under the blankets, kicking them off of his feet. "Ask you what?"

Sherlock sighed. "Let's not do this. Just say what's on your mind so that we can both attempt to get some sleep. I've heard that a hangover is rather debilitating and I would rather try and get some rest before it happens."

Well, all right. He supposed it was now or never – quite literally. He knew himself too well. If he woke up the next day without having brought it up, they'd never talk about it and it would always be a source of oddness between them. Maybe it would just be better to clear the air. He took a deep breath.

"I don't have feelings for you, Sherlock."

There was a definite smirk in Sherlock's response. "Dear me, how my heart is broken."

John frowned in the darkness. "It's not funny, Sherlock, I'm being serious."

"Oh, I know."

"Then why are you laughing at me?"

"Because you felt the need to say it. I know that you don't have feelings for me, John, I'm not completely ignorant."

John was completely flummoxed. "I don't understand, when you asked me… or when I asked myself,  _what's in it for me_ … you were insinuating -"

"I was teasing you, John, not actually inferring that you have a romantic interest in me. I was merely playing out the last remnants of my revenge against you, nothing more than that."

"No, but..." He broke off, clutching at words; his head was starting to hurt and all of this made no sense whatsoever when considering Sherlock's deductions earlier. "All that stuff you said, about the... the enjoyment... pupils, fast heart-rate..."

"Oh, well," Sherlock said offhandedly, "that was all true."

John felt his stomach clench in discomfort. He tried to laugh it off, unsure of where this was heading. "I  _was_  rather drunk, I suppose... you could've been anyone, it would have had the same effect." He forced a grin, more for himself than for Sherlock who wouldn't be able to see it in the darkness. "Haven't had sex for months..."

"You do know that you're making it even more awkward?"

The shorter man sighed, shutting his eyes and pressing his fingertips to his eyelids. "Yes, yes, I know, I  _know,_  but you're being so...  _cavalier_  about it! Like it doesn't matter that I -"

Sherlock interrupted him swiftly. "You're thinking about this from all the wrong perspectives. You have depression, John, your ability to function and think normally have been hugely impaired yet you're trying to analyse this situation as if it were  _normal_. Your reaction – that is to say, your enjoyment – of our physical contact earlier is hardly going to be the same now as it would have been were you mentally sound."

"...are you saying I'm mentally  _unsound_?"

"Lord." Sherlock's sigh was infinitely impatient, full of exasperation – it amazed John that he managed to keep up his winning personality even when intoxicated. "Focus for a moment, will you?"

"Fine," John mumbled, rolling his eyes. "Carry on."

"Thank you. Your depression so far has led you to alienate your friends to a certain extent, that much is obvious, and so far the only way that you seem even remotely comfortable in a social setting is to get obscenely drunk and therefore limit your brain function. The same, I would imagine, could be said for any physical relationship; you've shown no interest in pursuing anything remotely romantic which, if I'm not mistaken, you were in the process of considering before your depression became an affecting factor in your day-to-day activities."

John lay still for a moment. "How could you possibly know that?"

There was a sound of movement, probably a shrug. "When Mike Stamford is yelling at you from the room below mine it's difficult not to hear the words, 'so when are you going to ask out Mary'. It wasn't a difficult deduction to make after that."

John cleared his throat. "Mm. Course."

"So, when taking into consideration the sheer volume of alcohol you had and have in your system and the way in which it appears to lessen your depressive state, not forgetting that if you're completely honest with yourself you'll agree I am probably the closest thing you currently have to a relationship, it's not hard to understand why physical contact with me would be... welcome. Even, you could say... preferred."

"Preferred." John pressed his fingers into his eyelids again. "Right."

Sherlock's tone was still frustratingly matter-of-fact. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. Perfectly natural, really."

Slowly John shifted until he was lying on his side, arm dangling over the edge of the sofa. "And it really doesn't bother you." A statement more than a question.

"I'm well aware of the fact that were either of us sober we wouldn't even be having this conversation. We wouldn't have been in that situation and, if we  _had_  been in such close proximity, you would have been actively making the effort to move away rather than inviting physical contact. It's far less to do with 'feelings' and far more to do with the fact that we are both rather inebriated or, as Greg would so poetically put it, absolutely  _wankered_."

John's lips threatened to curve into a grin. "You might have a point. No... you  _definitely_  have a point. Remind me again to stick to my promise of never playing drinking games with you again."

Sherlock's voice had the warmth of his signature tiny grin within it. "You have my word. As amusing as it's been to see you spiral into a pit of embarrassment and confusion I think it would be better for the both of us if you were to refrain from encouraging me to drink what now feels like my body-weight in vodka."

John snorted. "Couldn't agree more. Don't particularly relish the idea of having that form of revenge every time you're drunk. Got enough to be dealing with without you gaying up a drinking game just to get back at me."

"Mm."

The two of them sat quietly for a few minutes, the sound of the ticking clock joined only by the slight thumping noise coming from above them. John's lips twisted into a grimace. "Is it always this bad?"

"I tend to spend a lot of Friday and Saturday evenings down here; gives me some time to do my experiments and assignments in peace, though, so I withhold from complaining too often." A yawn, more muffled movement – stretching, perhaps? "I think I'd rather like to sleep now, if you're completely finished asking questions?"

Rubbing the heel of his palm over his face, John scooted a little farther down the sofa. "Yeah, no, sure, sleep." His hands patted awkwardly down the length of his body until he felt the corner of a blanket, yanking it so that it covered his legs – the heat was wearing off now, much like the badgering of his earlier thoughts. " D'you need a blanket? You can't really sleep on there, can you? I can move if you want to lay down..." He stopped. "Actually, scratch that last bit, probably not a good idea whilst I'm still drunk."

Again the room went quiet, quiet groaning and the clock ticking filling John's eardrums as he wondered hazily if perhaps Sherlock had already fallen asleep and thinking, none-too-clearly, that it was a bloody good idea and that sleep would be incredibly welcome to him at that moment. He fidgeted a little, moving his feet until they were pressed against the warm leather arm of the sofa and shifting his head until it lay comfortably on the edge of one of the cushions.

He was just drifting into a delightfully heavy sleep when a half-conscious murmur came from the armchair:

"Knowing my luck you'd be a cuddler."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may hate me for the anticlimax, but fear not: last night I made a plan of the Big Things that are coming in this fic and I CANNOT WAIT TO CARRY ON. I promise, it will all be so, so, so, so, so, so worth it. DON'T LEEEEEEEAVE MEEEEEEE!!
> 
> Also, my beloved Marcy (because anyone who reviews as often as she does is beloved to me: there are a few of you =3) mentioned her interest in having this printed as a book once it's finished... personally my mind is blown by this, but would it interest anyone else? If I did do it as a one-off sort of thing?
> 
> Anyhoo... ENJOY! Much love to you wonderful people!


	23. Blatant Homosexuality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY NEW CHAPTERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!! <3 <3 <3 LOVE YOU SO FRICKETY FRACKING MUCH, GUYS!!
> 
> Ahem. Seriously, though. You're all amazing. I dedicate this to all of you. And every other chapter. =3

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

After a deep but unsatisfying nights sleep, waking up to the sound of giggling in the kitchen (god he hoped that was Lauren and not Greg) and feeling as if somebody had punched him in the cranium with brass knuckles, John was quite prepared to admit that he had felt better. He found that every movement he made, even something as simple as unfurling his fingers to stretch out towards the coffee table for his phone, was like torture on his poor body; christ, he was dehydrated. His skin felt as if it had shrivelled and died overnight, sticking to his bones like papier mache. Ugh. His fingers clumsily wrapped themselves around his phone and pulled it towards him, bringing it closer until he held it above his face and he could switch the thing on to check the time.

* * *

 11:18am. 4 New Messages.

_**Mike:** _

_JUST HAD SEX WITH REBECCCAA AHAHAHAHAHAHA BET U DIDN'T HAVE SEX_

* * *

  _ **Mike:**_

_Christ, I need my phone confiscated when I'm pissed. Sorry. Hope u had a good night. She's still here. We're going for breakfast._

* * *

  _ **William:**_

_You snore when you're drunk. This could be a problem. Gone back upstairs._

* * *

  _ **William:**_

_Leave before I come downstairs. I feel irrationally angry at the world and I'm blaming you and your vodka._

* * *

 John blinked (his eyelids felt as if they were glued to his eyeballs, bloody hell) and locked his phone, groaning to himself as he pushed the heels of his palms into his eyes and wondered when his brain had been replaced by mush and mulch; today was not going to be pleasant, especially as the floorboards above him were creaking and Sherlock was almost  _definitely_  getting up and he had yet to get out of the house. Quickly he tapped out a text:

_Can I at least get a drink first? I feel like I'm made of sand._

Five seconds later a bellow came from above:

"YOU HAVE NO ONE TO BLAME BUT YOURSELF, YOU BASTARD!" A groan of pain followed.

Well. At least that answered his question.

John gathered his things together and left the house without saying goodbye to either Greg or Lauren, blinking away the sheer horror of the sunshine and beginning the long walk back to campus.

**-X-**

The weekend passed with barely any contact from Sherlock; John was unsurprised and only slightly concerned. When the genius had eventually replied to one of his text messages it had been brief, insulting and still edged with the blatant suffering of a hungover man, pretty much informing him that were he ever to encourage Sherlock to drink anything other than water, wine or a single brandy again he would personally ensure that every good grade he managed to scrape from the self-proclaimed 'immense support' that Sherlock offered would be erased and changed on his record. John had known Sherlock long enough now to know that his threat would not be an empty one, talented as the man was at hacking into the school's academic system, so he replied with an equally brief and insulting affirmation that he would not ever encourage such a thing again, if only to avoid the sheer unpleasantness of the arsehole he had unleashed with such alcoholic beverages.

He didn't hear from Sherlock again until Sunday evening.

_~ Bing ~_

Putting down the course material he had been forcing himself to glance over (littered with red lines of writing from Sherlock, of course) John found himself feel oddly reminiscent as the sound of an instant message fell into his ear; it had been a while since they'd communicated via laptop. He pulled the desk chair with the laptop on it towards him, wibbling his finger on the mousepad until the screen awoke slowly, tetchily. He opened up the conversation window and read:

_**Holmes, W:**  Phone is out of battery and charger is upstairs. Greg and his paramour are also upstairs._

_**Holmes, W:** What time is your appointment tomorrow?_

John felt a bubble of nervous apprehension pop in his stomach – he'd actually forgotten about the damned counselling appointment. Ugh.

_**Watson, J:**  You know, most people use 'paramour' when there's a married person involved. Just saying._

_**Watson, J:**  11:30. You?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Your mistake of course is assuming that I am 'most people'._

_**Holmes, W:**  Tuesday at 2pm._

_**Watson, J:**  Are you nervous?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Don't be an idiot, John, there's nothing for me to be nervous about. Of course you're nervous, but that's perfectly natural._

_**Watson, J:**  Why is it natural that I'm nervous and you're not?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Because you actually intend on divulging personal details about your life and delving into the triggers for your depression which I expect will be very difficult and emotionally draining._

_**Holmes, W:**  Whereas I intend to sit there and deduce their own issues until they realise they are speaking to someone highly superior to themselves._

_**Watson, J:**  ...I hope you're joking._

_**Holmes, W:**  I assure you, I'm not._

John sighed in exasperation; they'd made a deal!

_**Watson J:**  You do realise that when I said for us to do this together I genuinely meant that we'd both have to make an effort?_

_**Watson, J:** We're doing this so that we can deal with our problems and triggers and actually come out of this feeling even a little more... normal._

_**Holmes, W:**  Really, isn't it enough that I'm going?_

_**Watson, J:**  No. It isn't._

_**Watson, J:**  And I'm a little insulted that you think it's fair for me to break myself down for your peace of mind and not be willing to do the same for me._

_**Holmes, W:**  I wasn't aware that you were doing this for me._

John's stomach twisted uncomfortably.

_**Holmes, W:**  You should be doing this for your own peace of mind, not for mine. You should want to get better for yourself, not for my sake._

_**Watson, J:**  Sorry. That wasn't what I meant. I didn't say it right._

_**Holmes, W:**  Hmm._

_**Watson, J:**  And, not to be a bastard about it, but don't you think that's exactly what you're doing this for?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Be more specific._

He really didn't want to be. John wished he hadn't said anything.

_**Watson, J:**  Forget it._

_**Holmes, W:**  Can't. Tell me._

_**Watson, J:**  No, it's nothing, I was just being a dick._

_**Holmes, W:** Regardless, you've said it now and I would rather prefer that you explained here and now rather than forcing me to either go upstairs and get my phone charger or have to come and confront you face-to-face._

_**Watson, J:**  All right, calm down, it's not that big a deal, you don't have to come over here..._

_**Holmes, W:**  You'd be surprised at how far I'd go to cease your irritating talent of being vague. So. Explain._

God, he was even more stubborn than John.

_**Watson, J:**  Bloody hell._

_**Watson, J:**  The whole reason you're even getting counselling is because I asked you. You're not doing it because you think it's a good idea, you're doing it because I want you to._

_**Watson, J:**  There. Happy?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Why was that so difficult to say?_

He wasn't sure.

_**Watson, J:**  You know it's true though._

_**Holmes, W:**  All right... so tell me, John, why are you getting counselling if not to appease me? After all, I was the one to push the subject. Had I not I highly doubt that you would have sought out help on your own._

_**Watson, J:**  That's because I don't NEED help._

_**Holmes, W:**  Please, let's not have this argument again._

_**Holmes, W:**  Even you have admitted that if you stay this way for much longer you'll end up doing something very selfish and stupid._

_**Watson, J:**  I've been feeling better._

_**Holmes, W:**  No, you've been distracted. There's a difference._

_**Watson, J:**  I could say the same about you. Made friends with any new criminals lately?_

_**Holmes, W:**  You are infuriating._

_**Watson, J:**  The feeling is reciprocated, believe me._

They both sat without typing for several moments before John gave in.

_**Watson, J:**  Please do this._

_**Watson, J:**  The way you're supposed to._

_**Watson, J:**  Wouldn't you like to be able to get by without needing to break into buildings and making enemies?_

_**Holmes, W:**  What a dull life that would be._

_**Holmes, W:**  How utterly dull not to feel that rush whenever you desire it, to live life as ordinary people do, the same old thing day in and day out._

_**Holmes, W:**  I cannot fathom a life where things are the same every minute of every day._

_**Watson, J:**  Then why are we friends?_

_**Watson, J:**  I'm the same, all the time. I don't change._

_**Watson, J:**  All those days and nights we've spent studying, eating, talking._

_**Watson, J:**  Nothing changes there._

_**Watson, J:**  Is our friendship dull to you? Are you going to get bored?_

Moments stretched where John thought that perhaps Sherlock wouldn't answer; he leaned back in his chair, watching, waiting for the little typing icon to flash.

Eventually it did.

_**Holmes, W:**  You are infuriating. Again._

_**Watson, J:**  Why?_

_**Holmes, W:**  You seem utterly intent on our relationship coming to an end, so sure that you're a temporary addition._

_**Holmes, W:** You force me to feel things I absolutely have no need to feel._

An odd surge of nerves flooded John's brain temporarily, making his fingers tingle.

_**Watson, J:**  I don't understand._

_**Holmes, W:**  You should put that on a t-shirt._

_**Watson, J:**  Sherlock._

_**Holmes, W:**  I would really rather not explain._

_**Watson, J:**  Why?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Because I'm tired of repeating myself._

_**Watson, J:**  Well, I'm tired of having to ask you to explain every little thing you say BECAUSE YOU'R BEING TOO VAGUE._

_**Watson, J:**  Seriously, you complain to ME about being vague..._

_**Holmes, W:**  No need for caps lock, John._

_**Watson, J:**  Fine. I give up. Stay vague._

_**Watson, J:**  I'm gonna head off now._

_**Holmes, W:**  Don't be ridiculous._

_**Watson, J:**  Then don't be frustrating._

_**Holmes, W:**  That's why we're friends, remember? Or had you forgotten?_

_**Watson, J:**  kgjg eroghbeigbadf bkadf baojengajngaje b_

_**Holmes, W:**  An interesting point. I'll remember that._

_**Watson, J:**  What do I make you feel?!_

Well, that wasn't what he had meant to write. At all. Unless that was code for 'goodbye', anyway.

_**Holmes, W:**  Sentiment._

_**Watson, J:**  Why is that a problem?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Irritated._

_**Holmes, W:**  Annoyed._

_**Holmes, W:**  Amused._

_**Holmes, W:**  Condescending._

_**Holmes, W:**  Confused._

_**Holmes, W:**  Exasperated._

_**Watson, J:**  Yes, all right, I get the point._

_**Holmes, W:**  Frustrated._

_**Holmes, W:**  Intelligent._

_**Holmes, W:**  Infinitely right._

_**Watson, J:** One more negative word and I will come over there and hit you._

_**Holmes, W:**  Warm._

John blinked three times before he accepted that he had read the word correctly.  _Warm_. Almost as if on cue, a pool of heat filled his stomach, coming out of nowhere and making him feel vaguely awkward at its presence.

_**Watson, J:**  Warm?_

_**Holmes, W:**  You threatened me. I had to say something positive._

_**Holmes, W:** Though that doesn't take away from its accuracy, however reluctant I am to admit it._

_**Watson, J:**  Warm, though... not exactly a positive word..._

_**Holmes, W:**  Ugh._

_**Holmes, W:**  You're never content, are you? Even when you get your own way, you're never happy._

_**Watson, J:**  That's MY line._

_**Holmes, W:**  Yes, John, warm. Warm._

_**Watson, J:**  Oh, yes, because repeating it clears that right up._

_**Holmes, W:**  You are insufferable._

_**Holmes, W:**  I'm going now._

_**Watson, J:**  No, we're still talking!_

_**Holmes, W:**  Annoying, isn't it?_

_**Holmes, W:**  I was, however, being genuine – it's Sunday._

_**Watson, J:**  Ah, of course, Sunday is pizza night. Wish I could be there._

_**Holmes, W:**  I'd say that we could save you a slice but unfortunately Greg's paramour is also here therefore I expect she'll be wanting your share._

_**Watson, J:**  That'll be awkward. Those two and you._

_**Watson, J:**  See, if I was there we could balance it out. Those two and us two._

_**Holmes, W:**  Mm._

_**Holmes, W:**  Though you'd be mildly disappointed I'm sure, with the outcome._

_**Watson, J:**  ?_

_**Holmes, W:**  Well, I'm hardly likely to put out on the first date, am I?_

_**Watson, J:**  ...christ, Sherlock._

_**Watson,** J: Images that I don't need!_

_**Holmes, W:**  At least they'll keep you distracted. Wouldn't want you getting nervous about tomorrow and finding yourself unable to sleep._

_**Watson, J:**  And you think making me imagine... nope, no, not even gonna say it._

_**Holmes, W:**  But you're distracted now, correct?_

_**Watson, J:**  I would honestly rather think of the counselling session._

_**Holmes, W:**  Of course you would, John. Anything to avoid facing your blatant homosexuality._

_**Watson, J:**  What the hell?_

_**Watson, J:**  Okay, REALLY just... stop. Stop trying to distract me. Please._

_**Watson, J:**  I'm deeply disturbed and I'm going to go and read some course material to stop my mind from just... no. No._

_**Holmes, W:**  :P_

_**Watson, J:**  NO._

_**Watson, J:**  Go and eat your damned pizza._

_**Holmes, W:**  Study hard. Try and get an early night._

_**Holmes, W:**  Goodnight, John._

_Holmes, W is offline._

John pushed the laptop away and muttered to himself, picking up some of the papers strewn around him and muttering a little more.

Just over an hour later he found his eyelids beginning to droop, eyes feeling a little itchy and the words on the page in front of him getting a little blurry; he shuffled all of the papers together and shoved them messily into the large blue ring-binder at the end of his bed, pushing the folder onto the floor and pretty much forcing himself to stand up and walk over to the sink. After brushing his teeth, stripping off his clothes and giving himself a quick wash, he pulled on a clean t-shirt and a clean pair of boxers, walking over to the bed, switching off the light and allowing his body to collapse onto the fresh sheets (one good thing about not being at Well Place was being able to get his washing done). He practically rolled under the duvet-cover, snuggling into his pillow and rubbing his cheek lightly against the soft, fresh-smelling material.

His phone buzzed.

Reaching over and squinting his eyes against the harsh light, he read:

* * *

  _ **William:**_

_Pizza night is a little peculiar without you here. Especially with Greg and Lauren kissing constantly and far too loudly. Is it not uncomfortable to kiss after eating such greasy food? I would imagine it to be rather too slippery. The texture would be all wrong._

* * *

 John slowly text back, fingers sluggish as his body yearned for sleep.

_I'll be there for pizza night next week. I'll save you from the greasy kissing, don't worry._

A minute later:

* * *

_**William:** _

_Get some sleep, John._

* * *

He didn't need telling twice.

**-X-**

Shit, he was running late. He was running so late. By the time he got to the Wyatt Building he was practically sweating from his insane journey there, his shin definitely bruised from smacking it onto the bloody bench that had come out of nowhere and his head starting to hurt from having to get up, get dressed and get to his introductory appointment within ten minutes. All in all it wasn't an auspicious start, yet John had to admit that at least because he was running late he hadn't been panicking about what he was going to say in there to whatever man or woman he found himself opposite. As a wise (arrogant, arsehole of a) man had once said to him,  _every cloud as a silver lining_ : apparently the silver lining today was that he didn't have time to um and ah and change his mind.

Speaking of the wise, arrogant arsehole -

"John." Sherlock came out of the building he had been about to burst into, holding the door open for him and nodding briefly. "You're three minutes late. I've been waiting."

Striding into the building and running his fingers through his hair, breathing hard and trying as subtly as possible to catch his breath, John cast a glance back at his friend. "What are you doing here?"

Sherlock followed, letting the door swing closed behind him. "I was passing. I thought you might appreciate the distraction."

The smallest of grins flickered on John's face as he blew air out of his mouth up onto his forehead, trying to cool himself down. "As you can see, I took care of that for myself. Decided to only give myself ten minutes to get here."

"I can see that," Sherlock noted with a smirk. "The receptionist is practically chomping at the bit. Kept going on about how she asked you to get here five minutes early."

John glanced towards the woman at the desk, a woman whose eyebrows looked drawn on and raised very high indeed as she looked towards him. "Great. Thanks."

"I'll let you go," the genius said offhandedly, hands slipping into his pockets as he offered a tiny half-smile of what John supposed was support. "Good luck. I'd come and meet you afterwards but I have lectures until five. Dinner tonight?"

John nodded quickly. "Sure, I'll meet you at yours."

"Good. Well. I'll speak to you later." Sherlock gave him one last nod before turning, out of the building and out of sight so quickly and smoothly that John found his stomach twisting with the ardent want to just follow him wherever he was headed – the truth was that at that moment he'd go anywhere at all if he could just get away from this building and avoid the inevitable.

No such luck. A female voice drifted towards him, sweet but impatient. "Excuse me, are you John Watson?"

John turned on the spot, not quite meeting the gaze of the receptionist as he shuffled his feet awkwardly. "Yes, er... yes, that'd be me. Sorry I'm late."

As he walked towards her she reached under the desk and took out a clipboard on top of which lay the forms that he had previously filled out and sent to her. He cringed. That had been a month ago. He'd completely forgotten what he'd written. "He's waiting for you in room A2 – just down that corridor and second on the left. Take these in with you and give them to him when you get in there."

He took the forms meekly, nodding and turning without meeting her gaze even once. He clutched the clipboard in hands as he propelled himself forward towards the corridor she had pointed at, palms starting to sweat rather rapidly as he got closer and closer to room A2, the door with the little glass partition and the dark blue plaque announcing the room's title coming further and further into view until finally stood in front of it, heart pumping, dread weighing like a concrete boulder in his stomach as he stared at the plaque and waited for his body to unlock itself so that he could reach forward and knock.

Finally, through an immense strength he didn't even know he possessed, he managed it. He knocked lightly with his knuckles, not bothering to wait for an invitation before he pushed the handle down and pushed it open, hesitating as he popped his head around the corner of the door.

"Um... hi, I'm John. John Watson?" His eyes fastened on the man sitting behind the desk. "I'm sorry I'm late, I'm uh..." He moved further into the room. "I'm supposed to have a counselling session in here. Is that right? Am I in the right place?"

The man behind the desk stood up, dark eyes meeting John's unwaveringly and openly; his lips flickered instantly with a small but seemingly genuine smile as he stepped around to where John stood, keeping his gaze fixed on his throughout his movements. His whole demeanour was somehow comfortingly laid-back, white shirt tucked into what were clearly designer jeans and shoes perfectly polished but his gait so relaxed and open that John felt himself reacting instinctively as he returned the man's small smile. He watched the man walk slowly, steadily enough towards him as if to give John the upper hand to move should he want to, his arm reaching out as he got closer to extend an oddly delicate hand to him as he spoke in a quiet, entirely non-threatening voice:

"Don't worry about being late; time runs away with us all. Good to meet you, John."

John reached out with his own hand, taking the man's and shaking it firmly, briefly. "And you... er... I'm sorry, she didn't tell me your name – your receptionist, I mean."

The man's voice was all warmth and openness, his soft Irish accent settling pleasantly in the space between them.

"Absolutely no need to apologise, I should have introduced myself: Dr. James Moriarty. But please," his smile widened slightly, fingers squeezing his before letting go, gesturing towards the chair opposite the desk, "call me Jim."


	24. To Know Oneself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: A very, very short one after a very, very interrupted weekend. Hope it doesn't disappoint too much! Have a great week, everyone.**

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

"So, John." Dr. Moriarty – Jim – picked up the clipboard from the desk and began to flip casually through his notes. "I've had a look at your notes already and I think I have a pretty good grasp of why we're here, but..." He lowered it, meeting John's gaze. "If you don't mind, I'd like you to tell me."

John shifted awkwardly in the chair. "Tell you... why I'm here?"

Jim nodded, putting the clipboard down and leaning back on his chair. "If you wouldn't mind."

So they were going to jump straight in. Great. "Er... I have depression. Or, I think I have depression. I don't know. I haven't been to a doctor."

"Well," Jim said with a brief smile, "self-diagnosing isn't always the best way to go about it but at least it's led you here. You should know that taking this step, actively seeking help, it's a very good sign."

Fingers twisting in his lap, John looked away. "Well. Okay."

"You're not altogether convinced, are you?"

"Not entirely."

"So what led you here today? Why now? From what it says on your notes it seems as if you've been feeling this way for a while -" Jim picked up the clipboard again, scanning the page with his dark eyes, " - a good three months, if we take into consideration when you submitted your forms and where we are now. I assume as you're here in front of me that you still have these depressive feelings... but why today?"

John stared at the clipboard. "A... friend. He encouraged me."

Jim tilted his head slightly, intently staring at John as if trying to read his thoughts; it was very similar to the look that Sherlock gave him for the very same reason. "So... do you think you would have come here if it wasn't for this... friend?"

Shrugging, John met his gaze again. "I don't know. Probably not."

"Mmhm." The clipboard went back down on the desk. "So your friend thinks you need counselling but you don't. Yet you're still here." The intent stare was not letting up. "In my experience, John, people agree to do things for other people but only follow through with them if they have their own reasons for doing so."

"Well, I'm depressed," John said pointedly, spreading his hands out, "so that's probably my reason."

Jim smiled slightly. "You seem defensive."

"You -" John bit his tongue, willing himself to stay patient. "I'm sorry. It wasn't... it isn't an easy choice. Being here. I would rather try and deal with it on my own."

"That's perfectly understandable," the counsellor said calmly, spreading out his hands as John had done before. "It often feels like a sign of weakness, trying to seek out help. It makes us feel as if we can't be independent. Like we can't keep control over our own lives."

"Yes," John admitted, nodding slightly, "that sounds... accurate."

"But it's not weak, despite what you may have thought to yourself when alone." The intense gaze was back, dark eyes impartial, non-judgemental as they stared out at him from across the desk. "There's a quote from Bruce Lee which I think is quite relevant here – do you know of him?"

"He's an actor, isn't he?"

Jim nodded. "And a martial artist, brilliant guy. Love his films." That small smile again. "He said, ' _to know oneself is to study oneself in action with another person_ '. In other words, your actions and reactions to other people, what you say and do in their presence, they're what will bring you one step closer to truly knowing yourself. It's so easy in our lives, so busy and demanding, to forget to truly look at ourselves; the only thing most people really tend to do is consider how they're perceived by others and how that affects them as a reaction. You, on the other hand, seem to focus more on what you think of yourself  _on your own_."

John attempted to think this through and came up with nothing. "So... what are you trying to say to me?"

Jim leaned forward across the desk. "If I'm right about you, John, and I hope you'll forgive me for making assumptions so early on, but I think that any time you spend alone you tend to analyse yourself too much, spend too much time being self-reflective. It makes you angry, makes you feel weak and out of control. I think that if we spend a little time in these sessions focusing on your actions and words towards other people you may find that you actually have a greater grasp of yourself in the company of others than you do on your own."

He was still drawing a blank. "I don't understand."

"It's all right. The more we talk and the more open you become, the closer you'll be to understanding what I mean. But that's unimportant anyway," he contradicted himself with a wave, "we're not here for me to give you my opinions of you. I want to hear what  _you_  think of you."

John balked at the idea ."Right now?"

Jim grinned, a proper grin this time; it was so open, so friendly. It was slightly unnerving, especially after weeks of Sherlock and his changeable moods – or lack thereof of any mood. "No no, not now. We'll get there all in good time. This is really just an introductory session so that you can voice your thoughts and questions on what to expect, what you hope to gain from these sessions. As you know the university can only offer you eight appointments, though if you feel it's necessary afterwards you can always arrange to have more. Obviously you've started at a bit of an awkward time – term ends for you in two weeks, for the summer, correct?"

John had completely and utterly forgotten about it. He hadn't even made plans to go home yet. "Oh, christ. Yeah."

"So what I'm going to do is book you in for another four sessions before term ends – two next week and two the week after – and then we'll sort out the remaining four sessions when you get back. Does that sound acceptable to you?" Jim's smile became apologetic. "I know the idea of compacting what should be four weeks worth of appointments into two seems a bit much, but now that you've taken this step I think it's important to keep it up. Summer is a long old break and I wouldn't want you to feel like you haven't had any benefit at all from our time together..."

Great, just what John needed: high-intensity therapy sessions twice a week. "Sure. Whatever you think is best."

"Fantastic, fantastic." Sliding his chair over to his computer, Jim started clicking and typing. "So that'll be... Monday and Thursday of next week aaaaand..." he clicked and typed some more, "Monday and Wednesday the week after. Same time as today. Does that work for you?"

"Can't think of any reason why not."

Jim glanced at him. "Though I'm sure you're trying."

John gave a small nod. "I'm not going to pretend I'm looking forward to it. I'm sure you won't be offended if I say that I'm going to be dreading every minute."

Rolling his chair back to the centre of his desk, Jim steepled his fingers together and rested his chin lightly on top of them, casting his eyes over John for almost thirty seconds before he spoke. "Y'know, a lot of people feel that way when they come to counselling for the first time; honestly, I think it's the most natural reaction to it. Let's face it, it's telling someone you don't know the most intimate, personal details of your life and knowing that you have to place every inch of trust you have within this one, unknown person. It's putting yourself out there to be  _burned_..." Something flickered behind Jim's eyes, something undefinable, "...and having to trust them implicitly not to spark the flame."

John could only nod - it had gone from vaguely uncomfortable to powerfully intense in the quickest of flashes, something he was only just starting to get used to within his friendship with a certain genius. He was out of his depth here.

"But I firmly believe, John, that if you give it a little time and if you just... risk it... you'll find that you come to look forward to these sessions. Well," Jim grinned, leaning back, the tension instantly bursting, "maybe not look forward to them, but at least approach them with a sense of relief. To offer you a complete cliché, this is a safe space for you. You can say whatever you like here and know that it won't go further than these four walls."

John's mouth was a little dry. "I... right. Yes. Okay, thanks."

"Anyway, look at me, rambling on!" Jim picked up a pen and shuffled the clipboard towards him, flipping to the last page and writing something down. "Did you have any questions for me? About anything at all, anything that might have crossed your mind."

His mind went blank. "Uh. I don't know. I don't think so. I, er... no. No, no questions. I think it's all... clear."

Jim nodded. "In that case, John, that's about all we need to do today. Like I said, today is just an introductory session, just a way of us making sure we both know what page we're on and where we're going to go from here."

John's eyebrows shot up. "What, that's it? I don't have to... I don't know, lie down and tell you about my childhood?"

A gentle laugh broke from Jim's lips; the man stood, shaking his head. "No, not today. Perhaps not  _any_  day. Certainly you won't be lying down, and there may be no need at all to discuss your childhood. I won't push you for topics unless I think it's absolutely necessary – essentially the effort will be coming from you. You're here to talk to me, not be told what to say. You won't see any improvement if I'm feeding you lines to repeat back to me, after all."

John shot up into a standing position like a rocket on fire, relief coursing through his body at the idea that it was really that simple, that he wouldn't have to say another word for another week. "Oh, well then... thanks. I didn't realise it would be so... short."

"Don't get too excited," Jim said with a wink that felt slightly out of place, "as of next week your sessions go up to forty-five minutes a pop. It won't always be this easy." He walked around to John's side of the desk, extending his oddly delicate hand out again and offering John an open, warm smile; John quickly reached out with his own hand, grasping Jim's hand in his and shaking it firmly. "But you'll have two sessions next week to figure that out. Goodbye, John," his fingers squeezed John's again, dark eyes piercing, "and I look forward to seeing you again next week."


	25. Take Me Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: Here you are, my beautiful readers - one to make up for the tiny one I posted yesterday. Reviews, comments and love are all so appreciated, I can't even put it into words. Love to you all, always!**

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

"Eat your lasagne."

"No."

John pointed a fork threateningly towards his friend. "Eat it or I'll confiscate your cigarettes."

"I don't want to eat it. I don't like it."

Rolling his eyes and stabbing a piece of rigatoni far more passionately than was necessary, John shook his head in exasperation. "Then why did you order it?"

Sherlock shrugged, glancing to the side to stare out of the window. "I like  _your_  lasagne. This tastes different."

John was torn between annoyance and amusement, something he was quite familiar with these days; he'd spent so much time with the Sherlock in the last month or so that it seemed those two were fast becoming his two primary emotions. "From what I remember, Sherlock, you said that my lasagne was 'mediocre and tasteless'. That wasn't exactly a compliment."

"It was constructive criticism. You should have taken it as kindly advice and taken it as a challenge. That was my intention."

"So…" John thought about it for a moment. "You were actually trying to encourage me to make it for you again?"

Sherlock turned back to his friend, irritated. "Well, yes. I would have thought it was obvious."

John stared at his friend incredulously. "No… no, that wasn't obvious. At all."

Shrugging again and plucking a lighter from his pocket, Sherlock began to click the flame to life in full view of the whole restaurant. John leaned over quickly and grabbed it from his fingers, slipping it in the top of his shirt pocket and narrowing his eyes; Sherlock reacted as expected, throwing himself back onto his chair and folding his arms tightly over his chest.

"I'm  _bored_ , John! Let's go and do something, anything!"

"Why is it that you always get bored whilst I'm trying to enjoy a nice meal? You were the one who wanted to eat out tonight, Sherlock. Why do you bother to ask me out if you don't plan on actually  _eating_  something?" John violently stabbed a few more pieces of pasta, shoving them in his mouth and practically swallowing them without chewing; he'd learned quickly that if Sherlock was in one of these moods it was unlikely that he'd be there long enough to enjoy – or even finish – his meal. "We might as well have stayed at Well Place."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "Interesting way to phrase it."

John chewed frantically on a few more tubes of pasta. "What?"

" _Ask me out._ " The taller man's lips twitched. "I didn't realise this was a date, John, I would have worn a nicer shirt if I'd known."

"Very funny," John muttered, lifting his glass of water and lemon to his lips and taking a sip. "Let's keep those sorts of comments for Mycroft and Greg, though I admire your dedication to method-acting."

"Oh, didn't you know?" Sherlock began to poke at his almost untouched lasagne with a fork. "Greg thinks we're not in a relationship now."

The phrasing was off; it took a moment for John to figure out why. "You mean Greg  _knows_  we're not in a relationship now.  _Knows._ " He put his glass down and started to eat again, a little slower now that they seemed to be actually conversing rather than on the verge of leaving. "What changed?"

"He's actually not as unobservant as I first thought. He noticed how we were interacting during the drinking game on Friday and deduced that, due to your obvious discomfort and my apparent teasing, we aren't in a relationship." He began using the side of the fork to cut into the lasagne. "Needless to say I've managed to...  _convince_ him not to tell Mycroft."

John eyed his friend for a moment before slowly starting to eat again. "Right. Okay. Though, I have to ask…" He hesitated, not sure how to phrase it without sounding like an arse. "Is it really…  _necessary_ … to pretend anymore? Mycroft seems to be willing to put up with the idea of you having a friend now, and given that he's stopped being quite so insufferable recently I don't think we really need to keep up the act just to irritate him. You know? I'm sure you can see what I'm saying…"

Sherlock's eyes zeroed in on John's, intense as ever. "You think that we should just be honest with him?"

John nodded, relieved. "Yeah. Yeah, no point keeping the charade going when there's no need to exaggerate the situation anymore."

"Exaggerate the situation." Sherlock seemed to think on this for a moment. "I see. Yes, all right. I'll tell him."

Giving a genuine smile, John found himself relaxing a little more into his chair. "Good."

"Indeed. Are we going to talk about your counselling session yet?"

It had been almost an unspoken agreement between them that they wouldn't talk about it until John brought it up. Apparently Sherlock's patience had run out. "There's nothing really to say. He introduced himself, we sorted out my sessions for the next two weeks before term ends." He shrugged. "Not much else."

Sherlock looked away; John took it as a sign of begrudging respect of his privacy, which he appreciated. "Was he…" The curly-haired genius grimaced. "Nice?"

John's lips twitched at Sherlock's struggle. "It's not like it was speed-dating, Sherlock."

The look that flashed across Sherlock's pale eyes was odd; John couldn't quite identify it. It disappeared as quickly as it had come. "Quite right. Then did you at least find him acceptable to you as the means to an end of your depression?"

"I don't know. I didn't really go in there looking for a particular type of person. He was friendly enough, if that's the right word for it. A bit like you in some ways. Intense. Smiled a lot."

Sherlock shot him a sideways glance. "I don't smile a lot."

"I meant the intensity."

Once more Sherlock looked away, the usual dance of gazes that John still wasn't used to making him feel as if he couldn't quite keep up. The man was impossible to read sometimes. "I'm not intense, just focused."

"Well when you're focusing on me it  _feels_  intense."

As soon as John said it he wished that he could take it back, knowing as he did far too late what would happen; almost as if reacting to the constant use of the word the energy around them shifted and sharpened, a contradictory mass of intensity both binding them and separating them in continuous, undulating waves. John had to take a few moments to recover before he could force his hand down mechanically to the plate in front of him, scooping up what essentially was just creamy sauce and putting the paltry mouthful between his lips, chewing despite not needing to, anything to distract himself. Sherlock had resumed his gaze upon John, a mild flicker of interest sparking behind his eyes as he watched the older man's pointless pretence to eat.

Eventually Sherlock spoke, his tone slightly unsure. "Am I being intense now?"

John did not allow himself to look up, knowing the effect it would have on the tension. "Yes."

Sherlock was for a few moments. "Does it… are you uncomfortable? Does it make you uncomfortable?"

John put down his fork and dragged his palm over his face roughly. They were really having this completely unnecessary conversation. In a dimly lit restaurant. With a bloody candle in the middle of the table (because apparently even if John and Sherlock  _weren't_  on a date everybody else seemed to think that they were). It was difficult to think clearly with the heat and the tension and the warm food in his stomach. "I don't know, Sherlock." He looked down at his plate, fiddling with his cutlery. "It's not something I think about."

"You're not looking at me," Sherlock observed wryly, the heat of his gaze hot against John's discomfort, "so I assume that I  _do_  make you uncomfortable." He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing infinitesimally. "We need to change that."

"No, we don't need to change anything," John said with a sigh, forcing himself to look up and at Sherlock as if it were no difficult feat. It disturbed him that it  _was_  difficult. "It's just… like you said, you're focused. That's all. I'm just not used to people being so focused on me all the time."

"I'm not always focused on you."

"No," John responded patiently, determined to hold his own and be confident about it, "but when you  _are_  it's not something I'm familiar with. You know what people are like, they don't make prolonged eye-contact or spend a substantial amount of time trying to read someone -"

"There's no trying involved, I can always read you."

John gritted his teeth slightly. "Right. Fine. My point is that most people are too busy focusing on themselves or what's going on around them to really  _look_  at someone. Not everyone has x-ray vision, Sherlock. Not everyone looks at people the way that you do."

Sherlock kept his stare unwaveringly on him. "People."

John blinked. "Yes, people. Human beings."

For a while they simply sat staring at each other, John working hard not to look away and reveal his increasing discomfort and Sherlock seeming equally as intent, though likely not for the same reasons; the waiters bustled around them and took away their plates, the customers around them eating and talking and laughing like nothing was happening. Then again, John's mind said reasonably, nothing  _was_  happening. Sherlock was just being intense and John, as ever, was overreacting.

Finally Sherlock seemed to have settled his thoughts or perhaps had made up his mind about something, John couldn't really tell – when could he ever tell? Placing his hands flat on the table, the taller man stood up without a word, pulling his coat from the back of his chair and swinging it over his shoulders and sliding it onto himself with a small sigh of contentment. There was no scarf today; the coat itself was unnecessary, it was warm enough outside not to warrant the need for extra layers… still, Sherlock seemed to be a package deal, him and his coat, and John wasn't going to tease him about it. John had a favourite pair of jeans after all.

Not even bothering to wait for the bill, Sherlock threw two twenties down on the table and turned. "Let's go."

As usual, John had no say in the decision and simply did what he always did: he stood, grabbing his own light jacket, and followed Sherlock out into the dark street.

**-X-**

John ducked around a huge hunk of metal seemingly sticking out of the side of a building, edging his way around the damp alley with shallow breaths, the smell so terrible he could barely breathe in without feeling the desperate urge to gag. Sherlock's voice carried back to him as the man effortlessly navigated his way through the narrow cesspit.

"Keep up, John. And keep an eye out. If someone comes up behind you here you can almost guarantee that they are not your friend."

Breathing out a sigh of frustration (and trying to ignore the small burst of adrenaline that had been sparked by Sherlock's warning), John made a small leap over a pool of something dark and sticky, glancing quickly behind him before returning his apprehensive gaze back to the pathway in front of him. Well, pathway was a bit of a stretch. Obstacle course was more accurate. "It might be helpful if you could tell me  _where_  we're going, Sherlock. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy being taken through backstreets and questionable alleyways any day of the week, but…"

"I need to pick up a package from a friend."

John stumbled over a metal rod, throwing his hand out at just the wrong moment to regain his balance and having it connect searingly, painfully on a rusty something sticking out of the brick wall next to him; he inhaled quickly, hissing through his teeth as he pulled his wounded palm towards himself and tried to see the damage done. It was far too dark. The best he could do was grit his teeth, press his palm to his chest and hope for the best. "A package? What kind of package? And what kind of friend?"

Sherlock stopped at the end of the alley, waiting for John to catch up with him. "Just some information he's been collecting for me."

John repeated himself, the stinging gash on his hand beginning to throb. "What kind of friend?"

"Not the same kind as you."

"Yeah, well, I hardly thought they were your best friend." John finally came to stand beside Sherlock, still holding his hand to his chest. Sherlock looked down at it with a frown.

"What did you do?"

John pulled the hand away and glanced at it, shrugging. "It's nothing, don't worry."

Sherlock's eyes flickered down to his chest. "That's quite a bit of blood on your shirt. Do you want to go home? I can do this on my own."

Shaking his head, John attempted to subtly bring his hand back up to his shirt. "No, course I don't want to go home. I want to meet this  _friend_  of yours. Not your drug dealer, is he?" He attempted to make his tone light, breezy, but his mind was suddenly very much considering the possibility that Sherlock was stupid enough to bring him along on a drugs collection.

Sherlock's responding glare was answer enough. "Do you really think I'd be foolish enough to take you with me? If I was picking up drugs, John, you'd be the last person I'd tell, let alone bring along for the hell of it."

He turned to continue walking, but John reached out with his uninjured hand and grabbed Sherlock's sleeve tightly within his fingers – it was highly reminiscent of the last time they had done something whilst fuelled with adrenaline and the irony of his lack of inhibitions coming hand in hand with the rush that only Sherlock seemed to be able to provide these days was not lost on him. "Don't say that."

Sherlock stopped; his shoulders rose and fell in a silent sigh, one that John did not miss. "Say  _what_?"

John let go of the sleeve and stepped around the taller man until he could look Sherlock in the eyes. "If you ever are in a position where drugs are an option again, you have to tell me. You  _have_  to." He was deadly serious and he hoped that Sherlock could see that. His lips set in a grim line. "I'm not kidding around, Sherlock, I will  _kill_  you if you go behind my back to get heroin again, do you understand? It's not an option. It's never an option."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock went to move away again. "All right, no need to get all dramatic on me; you're worse than Mycro-"

" _Sherlock._ " His voice echoed slightly in the darkness; John could feel the tension roll through his body like lightning, adding fuel to the adrenaline he was already experiencing and making him feel as if his skin was vibrating over his bones. "Don't joke. Don't pretend it's not a big deal. Just  _don't_  keep me in the dark."

Silence fell for a brief moment, before a single word. "Fine."

"Really? Because -"

"Yes, John," Sherlock interrupted with an audible sigh, turning and slipping his hands into his coat pockets, "that's fine. I will tell you."

John squinted, not completely sure whether to trust him. "…okay. So we're clear?"

Sherlock nodded and motioned towards the open space of darkness in front of them. "Can we continue?"

John moved out of his way. "Yeah."

"And don't shout out my name like that again, if you don't mind," the ever-condescending genius spoke from above him, beginning his stride once more, "who knows who lurks in these parts? I wouldn't want any of my arch-enemies to know I'm here."

John couldn't help the snort that slipped out. "And you think  _I'm_  dramatic."

"No, I  _know_  you're dramatic. You just don't yet grasp the gravity of the effect my name can have within the underbelly of London."

"Because you're so well known down here…"

"Yes," Sherlock said shortly, rounding the corner and entering what seemed to be a long, dark tunnel. "I am."

The two of them walked in tense silence for at least a mile, John trying not to become slightly concerned that his hand hadn't stopped bleeding yet – the blood was starting to cool against his skin but that in itself was worrying enough considering it had soaked through the material he held it against and was now undoubtedly leaving a crimson smudge on his chest. He hadn't had a look at what he'd actually ripped the skin on, though it was probably likely to have been a nail or a screw or something similar; either way he was heavily risking an infection without proper cleaning and bandaging, and if the slow intensity of the throbbing was anything to go by it wouldn't take all that long to get into his system. He gritted his teeth, however, and said nothing. It went without saying that he shouldn't speak. Anything he said now would echo around the tunnel like he were speaking through a microphone.

Finally they stopped. John found himself starting to feel uncomfortably clammy, a tad lightheaded. His whisper was a little shaky. "Why have we stopped?"

Sherlock motioned in front of them. "He's here."

As if on cue, a figure stepped out of the shadows and began to make its way forward; it was a slow step, cautious, the bulky outline hesitant until they were about three metres away. John couldn't see any details bar the fact that it was obviously a man; the darkness shielded his face completely. He felt the tension start to roll over him again, his instinctual distrust and apprehension kicking in enough that when Sherlock moved to take a step forward he thrust his arm out, blocking him.

When Sherlock spoke, John didn't need to see his face to know that he was smirking. "Calm down, I've dealt with him before."

A voice came out of the darkness, gruff, suspicious. "Who else is wiv you?"

"A friend," Sherlock replied back quietly, just loud enough that the two men could hear him. "He's no threat to you."

"Yeah? Then why's he here?"

Sherlock pushed John's arm out of the way and took two steps forward. The man did not move. "Not for the reason you're thinking, Lewis. We were having dinner and time got away with us. He wouldn't be here otherwise."

The man started to cough, a deep and throaty hack which sounded undeniably wet. John felt his jaw tense as the man spat out something to his side before turning back to the two of them. "How do I know he's not armed?"

"For goodness sake," Sherlock said, his tone utterly bemused, "we've been working together for two years, why would I risk ruining that now? When there's so much more to do?"

"Huh." The man was clearly considering this. "Well if you don't mind, Shezza, I'm gonna have to have a little look myself. Can't risk it, you know. Lotta enemies."

Sherlock sighed. "If you must. James?" He turned, seemingly looking towards John. "Would you mind stepping to join us? Lewis here needs to make sure you're not carrying anything that could do him any damage."

It clicked instantly that Sherlock was being careful not to reveal his name – lucky, really, as any hesitation on John's part would no doubt cause further suspicion and possible harm to the both of them. He took his steps resolutely, walking until he reached the space between them. He extended his arms, knowing that his willingness would no doubt work in their favour.

The man called Lewis walked towards him. "Ah, he's a nice one, Shez. Follows orders. I can see why you like 'im." In the dim light John could just about make out a round, craggy face, scars marring what looked to be at least half of his left cheek. Adrenaline helping along nicely, John's mind quickly processed 'Shezza', 'Shez' and the disturbingly Mycroftesque comment on his ability to follow orders; his jaw clenched again, though he was unsure whether it was to stop him from laughing or stop him from denying his willingness. "Didn't know you 'ad a boyfriend."

"Well, I wouldn't -"

"We're not in a relationship," John intercepted shortly, keeping his voice as calm as possible as the man advanced upon him. "We're just friends."

A little sigh came from behind him; the man who was now directly in front of him stared openly into his face. "Yeah. Yeah. Didn't fink you were gay, Shez. Sorry if I offended ya."

"Not at all," Sherlock said smoothly, staying where he was. "It's not me you need to be worried about offending."

John gritted his teeth and said nothing. Lewis reached out with his hands and began patting him down, eyes scanning his form searchingly until he finally stopped touching the now incredibly tense pre-med student, eyes lingering on the dark stain against his shirt.

"You bumped into one of your friends already?"

Sherlock made a small noise in the back of his throat. "If that were the case, Lewis, I expect there'd be far more blood on James's person, don't you think?" The two of them laughed in tandem, and the laugh was so unfamiliar from Sherlock that John had to fight the urge not to turn and stare at him whilst Lewis was still so intently looking at him. "No, he cut his hand on the way here."

"That alleyway," Lewis said with a shake of his head, stepping back from John and motioning for Sherlock to move forward, "it's fucking dangerous, it is."

"Indeed." Sherlock came to stand beside John, the familiar scent of him making John's almost achingly tense muscles relax just the tiniest bit. "So. Do you have it?"

Lewis grinned, revealing several gold teeth and more than a few missing. "Course. Went to a bit of trouble for it, too."

It was clearly a hint. Sherlock reached into the inside-pocket of his coat and pulled out a brown envelope, extending it out. "As ever I hope that this token of my gratitude will cover any pains you went to get it, Lewis. You know I appreciate what you do for me."

"Heh," the man barked out a laugh, "yeah, I know. Cheers." He took the envelope within a dirty, meaty hand and shoved it unceremoniously in a pocket. "And here's yours."

John watched with curious eyes as the man named Lewis pulled out a considerably larger envelope from underneath his jacket, full of god knows what – John couldn't even hazard a guess. Sherlock took the envelope and carefully peeled the flap open, peering into its contents and giving a small, affirmative nod. "Thank you."

"No worries, Shezza, anytime. You know that. Anytime."

Sherlock gave the man a small smile. "Yes. No doubt you'll be hearing from me shortly."

Another bark of laughter, followed by more wet coughing; John had to force himself to remain where he stood, his odd sense of loyalty to Sherlock making him utterly determined not to embarrass his friend by unintentionally insulting Lewis. "Lovely, lovely. Sorry 'bout that," he pointed to his throat, shrugging, "comes and goes."

Sherlock eyed the man for a moment. "Have you been to a doctor yet?"

"Nah," Lewis said with a wave of his hand, shrugging it off as if it meant nothing. "The wife looks after me, you know. She's a good girl."

"Mm."

"You make sure you look after 'im as well, awright?" Lewis was talking to John now, another grin creasing the corners of his eyes as he jerked his head towards Sherlock. "Always getting 'imself into trouble. He could do with a pal to look out for 'im."

John nodded stiffly. "I certainly do my best."

A quiet laugh came from his side. Lewis looked between the two of them for a moment. "Awright. Well, you two take care gettin' back to town, yeah? Bad time of year to be 'anging around 'ere."

Sherlock reached out with a gloved hand – when had he put gloves on? – and nodded. "Take care, Lewis. I'll be in touch."

At that, both Sherlock and Lewis turned their backs on one another and began to walk in opposite directions, no further need to talk; John quickly took a few steps to catch up with his tall friend, keeping his mouth shut firmly until they reached the entrance to the alleyway once more before he finally allowed himself a moment to speak.

"Are you going to tell me what's in the envelope?"

Sherlock glanced down at him. "No."

Well. That was unsurprising. "Is it going to get you in trouble?"

The same quiet laugh rumbled in the back of Sherlock's throat as the man took longer strides and ended up in front of John as he had been before, the same grace and purpose pushing him forward through the myriad of objects in their way. "You say that like I'm not already in trouble."

John took a risk and began to practically jog to keep up, attempting to ignore the continuing dizziness and rapid breathlessness that was beginning to become more and more apparent. "Are you?"

Sherlock did not reply; instead he wound his way out of the alleyway without a single word, back through the streets that John would have never gone through in a million years had it not been for his seemingly unperturbed friend and only speaking once they were out onto a main road, lights almost shocking after so much time spent in darkness. "Are you feeling all right?"

John was struggling to keep up, breathless and dizzy and all kinds of not all right as he stumbled out onto the pavement; his hand was still tightly clutched to his heaving chest, his eyes closing and relishing the scent of clean air as he fought to keep himself upright. "Fine. I'm fine."

With a roll of his eyes and a flick of his coat, Sherlock was at John's side in a mere moment. "Lying won't get you anywhere, you're terrible at it. Show me."

John shook his head, nausea beginning to creep into the crevices of his stomach. "I'm fine, Sherlock, really."

" _Show_  me." When John did not respond quickly enough, Sherlock's hand came from out of nowhere as slender fingers found their way to his wrist, wrapping themselves around it and prying it none-too-gently from its place. John fought against it weakly, pathetically, but with a final tug Sherlock brought the hand out into the open and turned it over, eyes scanning the wound.

His entire palm was smothered in drying blood, all the way down to his wrist.

"Sherlock…"

"Why didn't you tell me it was this bad?" Sherlock's voice was low, demanding. "You should have said something, we could have made a bandage and stopped the flow far better than you managed to – look at yourself, your shirt is  _ruined_."

John's voice was ridiculously quiet, almost pleading. "Sherlock -"

Sherlock's grasp on his wrist tightened, though John was fairly certain through his haze of dizziness that the genius was unaware of it. "It's going to get infected, there's no doubt about it. I shouldn't have taken you with me, I should have known that you'd end up getting yourself hurt." Sherlock raised his other hand, fingertips pressing around the wound in a light touch that was almost painfully in contrast with the grip on John's wrist. "Does that hurt? Does it feel tender?"

John could hear an odd roaring noise in his ears. "I… Sherlock…"

Icy eyes travelled rapidly over his face, the intensity almost overwhelming. "You're pale as a sheet… that's it, we're getting a cab and taking to a hospital, you need to see a doctor -"

It was too much - John felt his body give way to the roaring and the dizziness as he began to crumple in on himself, muscles giving out as his shoulder made direct contact with Sherlock's chest; for a moment he was certain he was going to fall, the pavement coming at him too fast to stop himself but just as he closed his eyes to face the impact, out of nowhere a pair of hands were gripping him tight by his upper arms and pulling him against something warm, solid. The scent of Sherlock wrapped around him and the feel of an expensive, soft shirt brushed against his cheek as a low, deep voice rolled and vibrated against him – the concern, the urgency… it was utterly unfamiliar.

"Hold on, John, I've got you – lean on me, lean on me. I'll hail a cab, just wait a moment -"

"No," John murmured weakly, trying his best to regain his footing, "no, I don't want to."

Sherlock's grip tightened, his voice becoming… angry? Irritated? "You need a doctor, you might need blood -"

"No. Take me home."

"I'm not leaving you to deal with this yourself, John!"

John forced himself to raise his head, heavy as it was, raising it just enough that he could direct his words up to his friend so that he would hear and understand his meaning –

"Take me home with you. You take care of it. You take care of me."

Sherlock's body froze. A car pulled up beside them, a cabbie asking the question. John waited.

Finally Sherlock spoke.

"All right, John. All… all right. I'll take care of you." He shifted slightly, directing his next words to the man in the car. "221 Well Place. Quick as you can."


	26. Bit Of A Mess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: BAM! HAVE ANOTHER ONE! COMMENTS ARE FAWNED OVER AND ADORED!**

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

The touch was so light he wasn't sure it was really there; it felt almost other-worldly, so gentle and warm and comforting even though the scent and pain alongside didn't really fit any of those words. Well. Maybe warm. Warm was familiar. Warm was constant. Warm was something John knew he could associate at least with the scent, though the pain... no, it wasn't really pain, more of a constant thrumming, a continuous throb that seemed to travel all the way from his palm and up his arm to his shoulder. It was uncomfortable. He didn't really want it anymore. No, definitely not. He felt a groggy urge to flex his fingers, that might make it better – he felt his muscles twitch, more discomfort, felt himself try to squeeze his hand into a fist...

More warmth – warm fingers, gently wrapping themselves around his wrist.

"No, John. Stop that."

A deep, recognisable voice. John shifted slightly, suddenly aware that he was lying down. His eyes were closed, too. Hm.

"Stop trying to move your fingers, you're going to open the wound again."

The fingers around his wrist moved, shifting up to press their tips lightly against the palm which felt as it were on fire.

"John."

He gave up on the fist, groaning quietly as he moved his head to one side and tried to open his eyes. His eyelids were so  _heavy_. Why were they so heavy? He was lying down... all right, but why was he lying down?

"Can you hear me? John, can you open your eyes?"

No, his eyelids were too heavy. He felt as if he should apologise. The voice sounded very concerned.

The voice was also very close. Why was it so close? "I've cleaned the cut as best I can, I just need to bandage it now. Keep still."

John obeyed, letting his muscles relax into the soft leather – ah, this leather, this was familiar too. He'd slept here before. Well Place. Sherlock's home.  _Sherlock_. Ah. That made sense. Sherlock's voice, Sherlock's scent, Sherlock's hands. He suddenly wanted to open his eyes again. He tried. A flicker of movement to his left, a blurred figure. It was dark, though. That was a relief. His head was hurting. Was it possible for his hand to hurt at the same time as his head? He was sure that was impossible, you could only focus on one pain at a time – then again, maybe the figure who he remembered now was Sherlock was dealing with the pain in his hand for him. That didn't make sense. His hand still hurt. The pain wasn't going away. But his head hurt too.

It was a bit of a mess.

"Let me know if it's too tight."

Oh, that's right, there was a new sensation – material wrapping itself around his hand, a grip on his wrist again that was much firmer than before but not a bad thing; there was actually something about the solidity of it that was welcome, a comfort. He remembered now the dark alleyway and the stabbing pain of something sharp dragging over his skin – a sharp intake of breath as he recalled it all too vividly, and what was that? A thumb shifted and moved gently over his wrist,  _that_  was nice, just as comforting as the firm grasp but even better because it overturned the gasp and turned it into a small sigh. It happened once more, a little more pronounced and over a wider area of skin which made it even more pleasant; it was almost distracting, taking away from the throbbing or at least giving him the option of thinking about the caress rather than the ache. He hummed low in his throat and then felt a flush of embarrassment rise quickly to his already warm face, something telling him that responding like that was a bit odd and not really what he should be doing when it was – ah, yes, Sherlock's thumb, Sherlock comforting him.

The tiniest pulse of adrenaline finally forced his eyes open.

His vision was hazy but he could see perfectly well enough to note how the tall genius was kneeling beside him, head bent to watch his own hands moving over the bandage he was wrapping around John's injured hand; he looked very focused, utterly determined. His face was impassive but there was something behind the look that John hadn't really seen before – or had he? In the restaurant, the flash in Sherlock's eyes after John had joked about Jim and speed-dating. It was like that. Fierce. Yes, fierce, but not just that. His mind fought against the fog and tried to find the right word but it was hiding just out of range so that he could not quite reach out and pull it down to rest on his tongue, which was frustrating when he was genuinely certain that it was an important thought to process -

The gaze that had been so heavily focused on his hand flickered up to stare right back at him.

_Possessive._

That was the word.

Slowly Sherlock tucked the edge of the bandage into the layers beneath it, not looking away from John's hazed, confused eyes as he did so.

His voice was a brief murmur.

"Hello, John."

The candles on the fireplace were lit. Had Sherlock lit those candles? John tried to talk but his lips felt cracked and uncomfortable, and his throat was so dry it was as if he'd swallowed sand. Sherlock leaned away for a moment – the panic that shot through John was so out of place – and then came back, his hand wrapped around a glass that had blissful little droplets of condensation running down its side which fell to the carpet – one onto Sherlock's leg, too – as he brought it closer to John's face. A black straw poked out of the top.

"I can hold it if you want to have a sip."

Without hesitating John separated his lips and waited for Sherlock to move the glass close enough, his head tilting forward to catch the edge of the straw against his dry lower lip, shifting until he could take a pull on the end of it and almost groaning from relief as water surged gently into his parched mouth and down his throat. He started drinking quickly, utterly enamoured with the sensation of water soothing the rawness away, only realising he should slow down when he caught the slight narrowing of Sherlock's continued gaze from the corner of his eyes. He stopped, letting the straw fall from his mouth.

Sherlock leaned back, eyes staring searchingly at his friend. "How are you feeling?"

John's tongue darted out to rid his lips of excess moisture, letting his head sink back down into the pillows beneath him. A cloud of Sherlock's scent washed up and over him – so they were Sherlock's pillows. Sherlock had gone upstairs and got him his own pillows. He pushed out sound from the recesses of his throat and winced slightly at the weak, gravelly tone which escaped from between his lips. "Been better."

The thumb shifted lightly against his wrist again – it was still there, John hadn't realised – but it was clear to the both of them that this wasn't an intentional move, rather an instinctual one; the tension predictably rocketed, John's face flooding with heat again and his insides doing an odd tremble as Sherlock's hand tensed against John's skin – he could almost hear the silent, racing war in Sherlock's head as he tried to ascertain the situation and deal with it accordingly, difficult when even John had no idea what was going on and what to do.

Still it came as no surprise when Sherlock let go of his wrist and stood, all grace and fluidity as he moved away from his weak friend to stand on the other side of the coffee table. "You need to get changed," Sherlock's suddenly brusque voice commanded, the sound undeniably too loud in the quiet room – where was Greg? "I brought an old shirt down, it's probably too big but it's the smallest one I have. I'll get you a bowl of water and a cloth for you to wipe yourself down with as I imagine you can't make it to the bathroom."

"Sherlock -"

The man was gone in an instant, not stopping his purposeful stride to the kitchen; John shut his eyes momentarily, his head a mass of pain and bewilderment as he tried to make sense of everything. In the end it was easier to just focus on the pulsing ache in his hand and ignore the rest of it, allowing himself a moment to mentally prepare himself for the strength he would need to get up in order to take off his bloodstained shirt – christ, that really  _was_  a lot of blood – and finding himself utterly exhausted just from having to think about it. The sound of water running in the kitchen and the quiet opening and closing of cupboard pushed him into action, manoeuvring his elbow until he could lean his weight against it to shift himself into a sitting position. He just about managed it, letting himself relax for a few moments against the back of the sofa to drag enough energy in order to lift his good hand to the buttons on the front of his shirt, a wave of frustration washing over him as he realised instantly that this would be near impossible.

He'd managed to get one button undone by the time Sherlock walked in with the bowl of steaming water and a white flannel. The look on his face was back to his standard impassive.

"The only clean flannel I could find was white. I'll just throw it away afterwards."

John's fingers fumbled awkwardly over the second button. "Sorry."

Sherlock's head did an odd little jerk. "It doesn't matter." He crossed the room and placed the bowl on the coffee table, stepping away instantly and back over to the doorway. "I'll give you some privacy to do what you need to do. You should probably try to get some more rest afterwards; Greg is out all evening so he won't disturb you."

John tried to force a smile as his fingers slipped over the button and he had to start again. "What about you?"

Sherlock's eyes darted between John's fumbling and the stairs. "I'll be upstairs. I have a lot of work to do."

"Right." John got the button half out of its hole before it slipped back in, a wave of frustration crashing over him. " _Damn_  it."

Left hand twitching at his side, Sherlock opened his lips as if to speak; he hesitated, then gave the tiniest shake of his head. "Well. I'll leave you to it, then."

John gave a tiny huff of irritation as his hand continued to stumble over the button, rolling his eyes to the ceiling before giving in and lifting his injured left hand to the shirt, hissing quietly as he bent his fingers and felt the tightness of the bandage press over the throbbing wound. "All right."

"No," Sherlock said shortly, taking a step towards John; for a moment John thought he was disagreeing with his acquiescence. "You can't use that hand. Do it with your right hand."

"I  _can't_ ," John replied stiffly, determinedly moving his aching left hand to grasp the button, "it's useless trying to do it with one hand -"

"You'll open the wound again!"

"Well I'm  _tired_ , Sherlock, and I can't do it with one hand!" John's eyes flew up to meet Sherlock's, irritation at his incapability to do such a simple task flowing freely into the room, making no effort to stop it. "You could help me, you know!"

Sherlock stared at him. "Help you." It wasn't a question. "As in -"

John was beyond caring about what was normal or appropriate. His hand and head were thumping. "Yes. Please. I am exhausted and fucking useless right now, so please,  _please_ , just help me. Please."

An entire ten seconds passed before finally Sherlock's jaw visibly tightened; he nodded sharply, taking the steps back to his best friend's side. "Fine. Move your hands."

John did as he was told, leaning his head back against edge of the sofa and closing his eyes. "Thank you."

The sound of movement filtered through the air as Sherlock moved to kneel beside him, the tension considerably more uncomfortable than before and fuelled almost entirely by their mutual irritation at each other; not that there was any decent reason to be irritated at one another. At all. There was no logic behind it. Then again, logic rarely featured in the reasons behind anything about their relationship.

The warmth of Sherlock's body leaned awkwardly against John's legs. "I'm going to start now."

"Okay."

The pressure of fingertips against the button of John's shirt was still surprising even though he was expecting it, his head laughing cruelly at him as it reminded him that it was Sherlock who was now beginning to deftly release them from their confines; it was impossible to forget this detail as the hands trailed down, little brushes of air against John's increasingly bared skin making him want to react with movement but his resolution to not allow this situation to become something awkward keeping him still. Traitorously his mind reminded him that he hadn't been undressed in months by any hand other than his own.  _No_. Thoughts like that weren't acceptable. He didn't know what was going through Sherlock's mind as he unbuttoned the rest of them in silence but he was pretty damned sure the young man probably wasn't nearly as aware of the weirdness as he was, and that in itself should have been enough to cease his brain from its irritating taunts. As the last button fell from its hole and the shirt sat half-open on his chest, John allowed himself a slow breath out and forced his eyes to open.

Sherlock was already reaching towards the bowl, jaw still tense as he dipped the flannel into the water and wrung it out with his large hands; he turned back and did not look up at John as he lifted his hands and pushed the material of the ruined shirt aside to reveal the brown mess of dried blood on his skin. There was a moment where Sherlock seemed to hesitate, his eyes fixated on the large bloom of colour but just as John separated his lips to speak, the flannel was lifted and placed directly on the centre of the stain - a low breath escaped John's open lips at the feel of the warmth, his eyes closing instinctively. The flannel was still for just a second more, long enough for the both of them to feel the change of atmosphere pressing down against them and – just like in the restaurant earlier – forcing a distance and a closeness that was so unfamilar to them that for a moment it was almost as if the oxygen in the room had drained along with any hint of normalcy.

Neither of them voiced the fact that John could have easily done this part himself as Sherlock began to move the flannel firmly over John's bare skin.

The mixture of warm water and cool air was undeniably pleasant. The closest thing that John could compare it to was a hot water bottle, soothing and incredibly beneficial to his bouncing nerves. His breathing became long and deep, his entire body starting to relax into the lovely feeling as Sherlock carried on dragging the warm flannel over his chest, occasionally moving away to rinse it within the steaming water before bringing it back and beginning his careful ministrations once again. After three or so minutes of this there was an easily distinguishable moment where Sherlock took longer than usual to bring the flannel back to his skin and John could not even begin to know what was happening in his own mind as he let out a small groan of complaint, missing the warmth and pressure; he was instantly and painfully aware of what he had done and how it had sounded in the quiet of the room, his eyes instantly flying open and staring at the ceiling in mortification as Sherlock stopped wringing out the flannel and turned to stare, slowly, at the steadily horrified mask of John's face.

Taking in an unsteady breath, John shook his head gently and closed his eyes again. His voice cracked as he spoke. "Sorry."

Sherlock waited a few moments. "It's all right." He pressed the flannel against John's chest again, leaving it in the centre and not moving it. "You're tired."

"Mm." Yes, he was. But that had nothing to do with it. "I can take over if you want."

"No, I -" Sherlock's voice broke off; John felt the pressure on his chest increase, fingers stretching out until it was the palm of Sherlock's hand keeping the flannel pressed against his chest, felt his stomach leap a little too dramatically as the very tips of Sherlock's fingers brushed accidentally against his bare skin – he held his breath without even thinking about it, waiting, right hand clenching into a fist. "I need to... we need to get the shirt off now."

John opened his eyes as the pressure suddenly disappeared, letting his breath out in a sharp burst. He watched Sherlock throw the flannel carelessly onto the table and replace it with the carefully folded shirt sitting beside the bowl, both of them avoiding each other's eyeline as John shifted forward on the seat and fought another groan at how stiff and unwilling his body felt at the movement; the ticking of the clock as ever counting the seconds of silence.

Eventually John forced himself to say something. "I can probably do this part myself, Sherlock."

Sherlock did not even hesitate. He stood, giving John a curt nod before picking up the discarded flannel and the bowl of water. "I need to go out again. You'll be all right on your own for a few hours?"

Reality flooded back into the room, jarring. John hesitated. "Uh..."

"Should I call Greg to come and keep an eye on you?"

Christ, no. No. He suddenly desperately wanted to be alone. "No, don't do that. Yeah, I'll be fine. You go. Wait -" He extended his arm out to stop Sherlock as the man turned abruptly towards the doorway, suddenly concerned. "It's really late. You're not going back to the tunnel, are you?"

"No," was the short reply, "I'm going to see Mycroft."

"Oh."

"I'll be sure to give him your regards."

John nodded as Sherlock left the room, head spinning. "Yeah. All right."

The voice of his best friend called back to him from the kitchen:

"Make sure you rest, John. Don't wear yourself out with all that pondering you so ardently think you need to do. That's what the counselling is for."


	27. Beyond Comprehension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: I will cry if I don't get comments on this. I will literally sob. SOB. GODDAMN IT, I WILL SOB GREAT BIG TEARS OF SALINE RIGHT DOWN MY FACE.**
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> **No, but in all seriousness, I so hope you enjoy this chapter. I hope it's in character. I hope it works. I hope you love it. *crosses fingers* Love you all, very much.**
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> **PLEASE NOTE: I changed the formatting to make it easier to read; cheers to cranial for pointing out that it sucked in Italics. ;)**
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> **ALSO NOTE (sorry): I've updated my profile on here with contact details and whatnot should you want to take a gander! I'd love to hear from you, for any reason whatsoever.**

** Chapter Twenty-Seven **

“Sherlock.” Mycroft pulled his front door open fully, eyes narrowing as he took in the tense teenager standing in front of him, eyes avoiding his. “What a… pleasant surprise.”

“No need to lie,” Sherlock said shortly, shifting from one leg to the other and allowing a quick glimpse up at his older brother – naturally he was in his dressing gown, likely having been woken up by Sherlock’s continuous hammering on the door. He felt no remorse. “Can I come in?”

An eyebrow raised in wonder. “Oh, do you ask for permission now? I was under the impression that had I not answered the door you would simply break in, at least that was certainly the case on the last… hmm, was it three occasions?”

Irritated, Sherlock took a step forward. “Just let me in, Mycroft, I don’t have all night.”

Mycroft moved aside with a low, patronising chuckle. “I’m sure you don’t, little brother – no doubt you have something or should I say _someone_ to get back to.”

Sherlock brushed past him without so much as a glance, walking through the wide hallway and straight to Mycroft’s study at the back of the house; his hand reached automatically for the light switch, bulbs sparkling to life and throwing the dark-wooded furniture into view as he strode towards the armchair facing the already lit fireplace – he always sat there. It was, in his mind, _his_ armchair. It was not altogether dissimilar from the chair he had laid claim to back at Well Place, though that in itself was no coincidence: he had, after all, stolen the chair from Mycroft’s study in the first place.

Just as he sat down the lights went out, plunging him into darkness.

“Let’s not waste electricity, Sherlock; the fire will do just as well for now.”

Sherlock grunted low in his throat, his eyes watching the dancing flames with mild disinterest. “So you were expecting me, then.”

Mycroft lowered himself into the seat to the right of Sherlock with a small huff, smoothing out his dressing gown and picking off a non-existent speck of lint. “Gregory was conscientious enough to alert me; it would seem he arrived back at Well Place shortly after you left.”

“Hm.”

“John informed him of where you were going,” Mycroft continued, seemingly dispassionate about the fact. “Has he taken up residence with the two of you now? I had thought that the third bedroom was in use as a storage solution…” His misty blue eyes watched Sherlock carefully as he spoke, reading his brother just as well as Sherlock could read anybody. “…but perhaps the extra bed isn’t required.”

Another grunt; Sherlock was in no mood to tease, much less be teased. His nerves we so oddly frayed and his head so ridiculously impregnated with nonsense that his patience was vastly limited, if he currently had any grasp of patience at all; that remained to be seen, and goodness knew that if anyone would gaily attempt to push it to its boundaries it would be none other than Mycroft Holmes.

A small smile flickered on his older sibling’s face. “Not going to play along today? Well, how disappointing. I assume that you came here with an actual agenda, then, if you’re not here simply to disturb my sleeping pattern.”

“No. Yes.”

Mycroft raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Which is it? As you said, brother mine, I don’t have all night. Some of us have jobs to get to tomorrow morning.”

Sherlock shot him a glare. “Yes, I haven’t forgotten. Are Mummy and Daddy still delightfully proud of their clever little boy and his big important job? I’m sure you take great pleasure in lording it over me in my absence - Mycroft the success and Sherlock the pitiful student.” He sniffed, turning away and staring back into the flickering blaze opposite him. “You must be enjoying the sensation of being an only child.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Mycroft snapped, crossing his long legs, “if you simply visited home more often you wouldn’t have all of these ludicrous ruminations of being looked down upon as the less successful sibling. Far be it from me to encourage the growth of your already substantial ego, Sherlock, but our parents boast of you to our neighbours quite as much as they do me.”

“Unlikely.”

“Regardless.” Mycroft’s tone quickly became sharper, focused; Sherlock had no need to look at him to deduce that his brother had enjoyed quite enough chitchat and was impatient to get down to the crux of the matter. “Let’s not waste any more time on this old argument when you clearly have something on your mind which apparently only I can unravel. I must say that I’m surprised.”

Sherlock’s fingers slid from their place on his knees and across his own lap, entwining; the movement was unnecessary, yet he felt the desire to do something, anything other than start talking. “Nothing surprises you.”

“On the contrary, the fact that you are here to talk about something which is blatantly bothering you is indeed of great consternation to me when you seem to already have a live-in sounding board… not to mention your intent to foray into the world of psychological therapy as of 2pm tomorrow.”

Of course he would already know. He knew everything. It embittered Sherlock no end. “It wasn’t my idea.”

“Oh, I have no doubt,” his brother said lightly, fingers drumming against his upper leg, “I had already ascertained that John would be the inspiration behind such a drastic decision. He has been, after all, the reason behind most of your life choices in recent weeks.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, words building up behind his desperate tongue but his mind as ever keeping him from releasing them into the cavernous room. He chose his response carefully, deliberately, ignoring Mycroft’s allusion to his friend. “Drastic is an overstatement. I’m simply doing it to appease you and stop you from insisting that Greg limit his social life in order to keep an eye on me.”

“That has absolutely nothing to do with it, Sherlock, so please don’t insult my intelligence by simulating empathy for Gregory after years of being utterly indifferent to him. It’s pathetic.”

“I’m pathetic?” Sherlock’s lips twisted into an unseemly sneer, his eyes tightening as he looked his brother up and down with blatant malice. “Says the man who has never even attempted to delve into the social cesspit that is humankind.”

“I didn’t say that you yourself were pathetic, simply your attempt to mask your actual motivation behind finally taking a well-needed step towards recovery.”

“Oh, fine,” Sherlock snarled, flicking his foot out as if to kick an imaginary sibling on the rug in front of him, “tell me then. Tell me about this supposed motivation that I’m apparently determined to deny.”

Mycroft gazed steadily back at his brother, not a flicker of emotion on his impassive visage. “I was under the impression that you came here to talk to me about that very thing.”

Damn him. Sherlock brushed his hands roughly down his upper legs and then stood abruptly, striding away from the armchair to stand directly beside the fireplace, the flames warming his torso as he shoved his hands into his trouser pockets; damn his observant brother and his impressions, damn his keeping quiet whilst Sherlock suffered. The word leapt out at him – suffering – and shattered into pieces in front of his eyes, burning: **suffering; to undergo or feel pain or distress... synonyms include agony, torment, torture.** He batted the word away with a sweep of his hand, frustration swelling within the bitterness of his churning stomach and climbing the heat of his ribs to settle uneasily in the depths of his chest – he felt the familiar etchings of mania start to glow amidst his thoughts and flood his senses, threatening loss of control.

Mycroft remained seated, watching his brother intently; his brow creased, his lips pursed. “Try to think clearly, Sherlock. Stay calm.”

Sherlock’s fists clenched within his pockets, his teeth grinding together as he fought the desperation to yell. “I’m _trying.”_

“Not hard enough. I tried to warn you, I tried to discourage you – and him. I thought he would be weaker, easier to sway -”

“Well you were wrong,” Sherlock hissed, jaw starting to ache from tension, “weren’t you? He’s stubborn, beyond manipulation. You should have seen that, you should have known, then you could have…” He broke off, not knowing how to finish that sentence and realising too late that he had just proved his brother irrevocably right as to the mass of confusion spreading like a cancer through his brain. He swallowed thickly, his eyes closing. “I am beyond comprehension.”

Mycroft slowly uncrossed his legs, leaning forward a little. “You are never beyond comprehension, Sherlock. You just need to focus.”

“He wanted me to tell you,” Sherlock muttered, glacial eyes observing the gambolling flames with the same intensity John had so recently accused him of, “wanted me to… explain.”

Staying silent, knowing that speaking would only discourage him, Mycroft simply waited.

“He wanted me to inform you that we are… friends. And nothing more. He wished for me to -” Sherlock was struggling to find the right words, enough that he wasn’t even aware that he hadn’t yet spoken the man’s name, “ – to assure you that it was only my wish to irritate you which led to our pretence at being… sexually involved and that there is nothing further than that currently… happening.” He ground his teeth together again, fully aware of the lame conclusion to his explanation. “He wanted me to tell you that.”

Mycroft had not missed a single beat; he had heard every word said and heard every word that Sherlock had failed to utter. “Yes, well, you can thank John for me for his honesty.” He waited, eyes remaining completely fixed on Sherlock’s strained face. “And what about you?”

Sherlock lifted his fingers to his lips, his teeth finding the edge of a nail and starting to wear away at it; it was a habit he had not indulged in years. “What about me?”

“Don’t feign ignorance, it’s irritating.” Mycroft sighed, inwardly wondering at Sherlock’s allegation of John’s stubbornness when he was even more prone to such behaviour. “What did _you_ want to tell me?”

“That.” Sherlock’s teeth moved on to the skin at the edge of his nail, biting unnecessarily hard. “That’s what I came to say.”

The older Holmes brother was quickly running out of patience. “Might I remind you again that I have a position of employment to attend tomorrow? I would quite like to get some sleep beforehand…”

Sherlock let his hand drop from his lips, a small bloom of blood welling to the surface where his teeth had been. “Then go. Sleep.” He made no move to leave. “I may stay here tonight.”

Mycroft pushed himself out of the chair, voice almost dangerously quiet. “No, brother mine, I don’t think that you will. You will tell me what you came here to say and then you will return back to Well Place to look after John, as you promised to do.”

Sherlock was instantly alert; he knew without a shadow of a doubt that John would have never told Greg that, no matter how talkative he was feeling. He couldn’t explain it even to himself, though god knew he wanted to be able to, but he was absolutely certain that John understood the depths to which Sherlock had gone in order to do the things he had done back at Well Place and that he would keep it to himself regardless of what he was currently thinking. He raised his chin, defensive. “Is that an educated guess or have you been having me followed again?”

Mycroft’s gaze was steady. “Gregory told me that John was injured. You are here, clearly shaken, resisting vulnerability, and you have yet to tell me the real reason as to why you turned up on my doorstep at 11 o’clock at night. You have blood on your shirt which is evidently not your own and considering he so blindly overlooked your drug addiction in order to pursue a relationship with you I am relatively certain that you feel a certain level of responsibility for him and his care.” His own chin tilted up, matching Sherlock’s arrogance without hesitation. “Therefore you wouldn’t have left him to care for himself.”

Sherlock looked down to his navy shirt and saw that Mycroft was indeed right; a streak of blood arced over his chest, though for the life of him he couldn’t think of where it had come from or a point where John’s hand had connected with his person. “I’ll have to throw this away.”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle, eyes less judgemental than they had been before. “You are falling apart.”

The voice that came from Sherlock’s throat was so unfamiliar in its brokenness, its vulnerability, that Sherlock was unsure that it was even himself was speaking. “I’ve observed relationships for years. I’ve watched people from my pedestal, seeing them converse and interact, somehow gleaning joy and sadness and anger and… love, simply by allowing the constant presence of another person in their lives. I have seen friendships fall, marriages fail, families deteriorate and I have never understood the basis behind them, the foundations. Every connection seemed weak, damaged before it had even taken hold. I didn’t want to understand it. I didn’t want to know.”

Again Mycroft played silent, simply watching his brother slowly unspool.

“As it turns out, brother dear, I…” He laughed, an utterly fractured noise which had no place in the room whatsoever, “…I am just as weak. I am just as foolish. I have allowed myself the frustration and oddity of a relationship and it was not my choice, I did not openly make this decision to invite -” he spat the word, the sound of it shaping almost visibly in the air, “ – _sentiment_ into my world. It is clear as day to you, I know that – just looking at your face it’s obvious that you knew what would happen and you knew how it would crawl and fester and grow within my mind… as you so accurately said earlier, you did warn me. And him. You warned us both. And I should have listened.” His head shook back and forth slowly, eyes glassy as they stared blindly into the fire. “I should have listened to you for once in my life.”

“What has changed?” Mycroft asked. “Until today it seemed that everything was fine, everything was… settled. Something has to have happened.”

Sherlock’s eyes raised haltingly to meet Mycroft’s. “He got hurt, Mycroft. He got hurt and it was my fault.”

“Explain.”

“I’ve never had to think of another person in my life, my only concern was ever my own well-being. It didn’t matter what happened to anyone else because there never was anybody else, nobody that mattered. Oh, I had family – you, Mother, Father – and perhaps you could include Greg though until recently I never really included him in any of my considerations, but even then… even then I didn’t need to think of you. Barring you, everybody had somebody. And you never needed anybody, you still don’t. You’re happy alone.”

Something passed over Mycroft’s face; it lasted just a moment, and was gone before Sherlock could notice it.

“But John -” Sherlock broke off, a sharp intake of breath as he spoke the man’s name for the first time since he had arrived, “ – John destroyed that, he… he broke in, he interfered. Until tonight it hadn’t mattered so much, or not to the point that it matters now -”

“Why does it matter now?”

“Because he got hurt!” It exploded from him like a firework, his entire body vibrating from it as he whirled to properly face his brother, eyes wide and full of undisclosed emotion, “he got hurt and it was my fault for not thinking of him! He got hurt on my watch, Mycroft, and I don’t understand why it makes me feel the way that I do!”

“Calm down,” Mycroft admonished, though not unkindly. “You’re losing control, you need to reign it back in.”

“I… _can’t_.” Sherlock said brokenly, his hands moving up to cover his face; Mycroft was conscious to the fact that Sherlock was not talking about the volume of his voice as he had been. “I don’t understand any of it, it is beyond me now. Before it was easy, easier than it should have been but now it’s different and it’s interfering with how I think and react and John is lying at my home right now with a bloodied hand because I didn’t consider what could happen to him… and now it’s all I can think of. It is poisoning my mind and I cannot fathom it. You’re right, Mycroft, you are absolutely right as you ever seem to be -” His hands dropped to his sides, his eyes finding Mycroft’s and knowing that his brother would be able to see exactly what he was really saying, “ – I lost control and now he’s going to leave.”

“Sherlock…”

“I don’t understand. I don’t _understand_.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft’s voice was stronger, firmer, “I asked you a question earlier that you have yet to answer and I think that now is the time to try.”

“What question?” Sherlock took a step back in his desperation, then forward again. “What question?”

“Calm down first. Take a deep breath and calm yourself. You’re acting like a foolish, hormone-ridden teenager and you need to stop.” Mycroft hesitated for a moment, realising what he had said; Sherlock laughed dryly, shaking his curly head.

“I am a teenager, Mycroft. We forget this, I know, but I am. I **am** a hormone-ridden teenager.”

Mycroft took a step back, closing his eyes for a moment. “Which certainly doesn’t help.”

Narrowing his pale eyes and directing his heated stare at his brother, Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. “Doesn’t help what?”

The older man opened his eyes and met Sherlock’s hot gaze wearily. “Though I hate to use age or the natural biology of a human being as a point of explanation, it would probably be accurate to assume that were you, say, ten or twenty years older than you are now that you would not be quite so… emotional.”

“I’m not emotional!”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Mycroft snapped, “you’re drowning in it. You’ve completely relinquished your grip on any level of sense and you’re falling to your emotions entirely. It’s disappointing, certainly, but you must accept that you are not in your right mind and that you are currently experiencing a wealth of emotions which you have never before allowed yourself to feel.”

Sherlock said nothing, allowing his glare to say it all. Mycroft smirked.

“I’ll take that as your acquiescence. I wouldn’t have thought it would ever be an issue, but I genuinely believe that were you older and less highly strung than you are currently - thanks to the mass of hormones pulsing through your adolescent body – you would not be quite so dramatic about all of this. You have to push it aside, Sherlock. You have to do as you’ve always done and realise that you are better than your biological urges.”

Sherlock snorted in derision, looking away. “Biological urges. You make me sound like a… a sex-obsessed ruffian.”

“Not quite what I meant, but regardless: try to think past it. Try to think clearly.”

Silence fell between them as Sherlock turned away from Mycroft, his arms falling back to his sides and his hands curling into tight fists as he begrudgingly attempted to do as his brother had suggested; he shut his eyes and allowed himself a deep inhale, breathing in the heat of the room and the scent of burning wood, repeating the action several times and slowly unfurling his fingers from their clenched position. He let the sound of crackling fill the whorl of his ear, the heat of the fire brush his skin and bring him back to the room and out of his head. After a full minute of this he finally began to deviate his body back to face Mycroft, eyes not quite so full, mind not quite so jumbled.

The two brothers gazed at each other.

Sherlock nodded. “All right. What was the question?”

Mycroft eyed him closely. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

An impatient sigh, gloriously typical of himself. “Just ask it.”

They stared at each other again. Eventually Mycroft gave a small nod.

“Good. Focus, now.”

“I am.”

Mycroft kept his eyeline steady. “What did you come here to tell me?”

Sherlock’s body started to vibrate again, but it was different this time: he was in control. He could say this and it would make sense. He could say it and it wouldn’t have to shake his foundations. “I came here to tell you that John says we’re not in a relationship...”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, raising his hands up in exasperation. “Sherlock -”

“…and to tell you that I think he’s the most ignorant man I’ve ever met.”

The silence that met Sherlock’s words was altogether different from the silences of before; it was no longer full of sentences that neither of them were willing to say, no longer empty and stale. The silence that filled the room as the two brothers stared across the fire at one another was a twisted mixture of truth, of understanding and, most prominent of all, pity. For the first time in his life Sherlock Holmes understood what people often described about the aftermath of speaking something achingly true: a pressure had lifted from his shoulders at the mere vocalisation of it. Equally true was the fact that before he had said the words he hadn’t even been sure of it himself. But he had said it now, and as he had often quoted to himself in the dark of his bedroom, ‘when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth’ – and this was the truth. It was improbable. It was utterly, undeniably improbable. But it was not impossible.

There was a sense to it that he could only now understand.

Mycroft watched him gravely, his face half hidden in shadow. “So. You are saying to me…”

“In my years of observation I have not been idle. I have taken note of everything, no matter how ridiculous or unimportant the details have seemed to me. I told you that I have watched people in their relationships, their friendships, their acquaintanceships – I have seen and I have absorbed and I have stored this information away. I have not understood until now the difference. But I do. Understand. John Watson -” his eyes closed briefly, the name suddenly carrying such significance that he could not allow himself to think too much of it now, “ – is my closest friend. And he is important beyond anyone else I have ever had the misfortune to meet.” He forced his eyes back open, verdigris gaze unwavering against Mycroft’s. “I will not pepper my confession with unnecessary declarations, nor will I say that I feel any particular sexual urges or desires. That is not what fuels what I… feel. I believe that I remain unaffected by that particular consequence of the hormones you so accurately described as currently flowing through my – what was it? – adolescent body.” He allowed a small, controlled smile. “But I am relatively sure of what the rest of my admittedly unwelcome emotions mean and therefore confirming what I said earlier as the undeniable truth.”

Mycroft sighed; acceptance, an odd taste of sympathy that was utterly out of character. “And that is?”

“That John Watson is the most ignorant man I have ever met in my life. And we are, at the very least in my own estimation, in a relationship that extends beyond the realms of friendship.”

“I see.” Mycroft’s hand dipped into the pocket of his dressing gown, pulling from it a pack of cigarettes that Sherlock was almost certain had been bought earlier that day. His brother slid one out with his dextrous, elegant fingers and brought it to slowly his lips. “And will you be telling him?”

Sherlock watched as Mycroft sparked a match and lifted it to light the end of the cigarette, embers glowing to life. “Certainly not. It is, after all, my decision to label it as I have. The ball is very much in his court.”

“You do realise that he may remain blissfully ignorant for the foreseeable future?”

Sherlock’s mind flashed back to hours earlier, the feel of John’s racing pulse underneath his fingertips and the sound of his gentle sighs carrying across the limited space between them. “We’ll see.”

“Be careful, Sherlock,” Mycroft advised quietly, turning away as he blew smoke from between his lips. “My warning is still relevant. You’ll do more harm than good.”

“Mm. Yes. I expect you’re right. Here, give me a cigarette before I leave.”


	28. Not Who I Am

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: Hey guys - sorry for the delay, things are a bit full-on at the moment. Was still written with love and adoration, though - I never forget you! Comments eternally appreciated!**

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

He couldn't call it an 'emotional rollercoaster' as that was to imply that his emotions were out of his control, and that simply wasn't the case; his emotions, despite his embarrassing little display in front of Mycroft, were very much in check now. Certainly the journey back in the cab was helping – he'd cracked the window a little, and the almost-warm breeze that was filling the back of the car smoothing away any edges that were threatening to cut through his resolve and ensuring that his mind was back to its sharp, concise processes. It was important that he stay lucid. It was important that he think this through rationally, logically, without the irritating haze of emotion that had so nearly made him demand that John Watson see sense.

Not that it was sense. It was entirely ridiculous.

Sherlock wasn't completely ignorant. He knew that there was a chance that John would never understand the nature of their relationship and that he would go on seeing Sherlock as his best friend – something that certainly could be construed as progression seeing as Mike Stamford had once held that title, and truthfully Sherlock was somewhat smug about that fact – and, really, was that so terrible? Having witnessed the ebbs and flows of relationships over the years, Sherlock had long come to the conclusion that the strongest relationships were not necessarily those of a romantic quality; more accurately it seemed that the more enduring relationships were those rooted firmly within purely platonic boundaries, friendships having a higher survival rate than those of an amorous nature. The only real issue that could stem from this, as far as Sherlock could see, was if John found a willing romantic partner. Though he was aware that friendships could be sustained with someone who was embarking upon a meaningful relationship with someone of their choosing, he was also conscious of the fact that more often than not these friendships tended to change and become less important in the grand scheme of things.

He found his jaw tensing at the idea. The truth was that John had become (irritatingly) the most important person in Sherlock's life – naturally he hoped that John had come to reciprocate these feelings if nothing else, so the fact that he could be so easily replaced any day now was of increasing concern to him. He had, admittedly, become somewhat possessive over his friend, something that had almost been revealed in the restaurant earlier that evening; John had practically waxed lyrical about his new counsellor. What was it – friendly? Lots of smiles? Intense? It had grated Sherlock's nerves then and it still managed to do the same now, especially once John had admitted that the intensity brought about a similarity between the two of them. No matter how clueless Sherlock appeared to be about friendships he was well versed in what was appealing to people and what was considered uninviting – surely it would be that John would undoubtedly prefer this  _nice_  man who was so warm and welcoming and offered him a stability that Sherlock could not? How could John, in his right mind, find Sherlock a better choice for his confidant? He knew himself to be unfailingly unpleasant. True, he had softened somewhat in the last month or so, but that meant nothing. First impressions, as he had said the first time he met John face-to-face, were impossibly important. And he had not made a good one.

Sherlock stared bitterly out of the window. Damned sentiment. John had no one to blame but himself if this ended badly, for being so bafflingly likeable.

By the time he had paid the cabbie and quietly entered his house once more, Sherlock had changed his mind. Not about John – no, that had not changed at all – but he had come to the realisation that if he was ultimately determined to have John by his side and not find himself replaced by a currently nameless woman (because he was certain that John was not homosexual) then he would have to find a way to make him understand... no, not make him. That was all wrong. He didn't want to force his own frail grasp of what was going on between them onto John. He wanted John to decide for himself. But John was stubborn. He was ignorant. He couldn't see for himself what was painfully obvious.

Even  _Mycroft_  hadn't been surprised.

Sliding his coat from his arms and hanging it on the edge of the banister, he found himself nonplussed when a murmur came from the living room.

"Sherlock?"

He felt it as clearly as he had when he had first uttered John's name in Mycroft's study earlier on, that faint nudge in his chest that told him that something had changed, something was different; even though he was aware of its foundations now, it was still an odd sensation. He pushed it aside, determined that at least for now he should act as he had before this – then again he didn't really  _want_  anything to change, at least not in the way that they interacted – and silently took his steps to stand in the middle of the doorway.

The room was dark; he could not see John, or at least not in detail; he simply looked towards the lump of blankets on the sofa and directed his voice towards it. "I thought I told you to rest."

The blankets shifted and a figure sat up; John was silhouetted against the dim light of the street lamp outside. "I was. I did. My hand -" Sherlock watched as Silhouette-John held it up, " - was prickling. Doesn't make for an easy sleep."

"No," Sherlock agreed quietly, leaning against the door frame and staring at the dark shape in front of him, "I'm sure it doesn't."

He could see John's profile, looking away from him for a moment and down at his hands, though surely he couldn't see himself any better than Sherlock could see him; he could practically hear the ticking of John's mind, words cycling through and being tossed aside as soon as they were deemed useless. It would have been amusing if Sherlock hadn't just spent an evening being unbearably honest about his own thoughts – perhaps it was time that John did the same.

He took a step into the room. "Tell me what you're thinking," he demanded, tone irritated; was he irritated? Yes. A little. "You've had a few hours on your own to gather your thoughts – indulge me. What have you been thinking whilst I've been gone?"

John was silent for a moment before speaking. "Were you really with Mycroft?"

"Yes."

John's profile nodded. "Did you get what you needed?"

Sherlock felt his brow crease, momentarily distracted. "Why would you assume I needed something from him?"

The black shape of John's face turned towards him. "Well, you  _did_  leave me alone in your house for two hours at a time when most people would be sleeping. So... y'know, I thought..." He trailed off, leaving Sherlock to fill in the blanks. The irritation returned.

"You say it like I meant it as a personal affront to you. I didn't leave simply with the intention of... leaving you." It sounded odd. Not at all what he meant. "I had things to discuss with him and it could wait no longer. It seemed opportune considering you needed the rest to recuperate."

A quiet sigh filled the space between them. "I know. I know that you didn't leave just to make me feel lonely as some sort of... punishment."

Sherlock was unable to stop himself from taking a few more steps into the room, close enough that he could make out the shine of John's eyes; the nudge his chest interrupted his train of thought for a moment, temporarily focused on the slight shimmer directed wholly towards him. He jerked his head forward slightly, forcing himself back to the conversation at hand.

_Punishment._

"You were... lonely?"  _No, no, that wasn't what you meant to say. Fool._  "I don't understand what you mean. Why would I feel it necessary to punish you?" He shook his head again, glancing behind him, physically avoiding what was right in front of him. "You're being ridiculous."

He could practically feel the incredulous stare coming from John. It was uncomfortable. "Sherlock, I was specifically saying that I knew that you hadn't left because -" He cut himself off, hands shifting against the blankets and pulling them off of his curled-up form. "Right, no, we're getting ourselves confused."

"I'm not confused," Sherlock muttered, folding his arms over his chest as he found himself listening out for any tell-tale noise to indicated that Greg had awakened. "Did he bring anyone home with him?"

It took a few slow moments for John to catch up; his mind was so infinitely delayed that Sherlock found it amazing that he had somehow managed to get into university at all. "What? Greg? No, he came home alone. A few minutes after you left."

"Yes, Mycroft told me."

"Oh." Silence. "You didn't answer my question."

Sherlock made a noise of obvious impatience in the back of his throat. "And you have yet to answer mine. And I asked first."

The sound of a throat clearing, the shuffling of legs as John slid them from the soft leather and placed his feet firmly on the wooden floor. "Yes I did. I asked you if you were really with Mycroft."

"That's one thought. I know that you don't have the fastest mind in the room, John, but surely you managed to process more than that in the two hours that I was gone."

"Christ." Sherlock watched as John slowly shook his head from side to side before turning his head back up to look upon Sherlock's shadowed figure. "Did you and Mycroft argue or something? Because you seem to have taken a larger-than-average dose of arrogance since you were last here."

Sherlock bristled; his defences rose and his mind began to speed up – ordinarily it would be a good thing. Not necessarily at this point. "This is how I always am, John. I'm arrogant. I'm insensitive. I'm unemotional. Is it really so surprising?" His lips twisted into a sneer.

John stood abruptly, sending a blanket and two cushions to the ground; Sherlock stood up straighter out of instinct, tilting his chin up as the shorter man stood directly opposite him. He could almost see his friend's eyes flash. Ah. The familiar, unpleasant tension. It was disturbingly welcome. "No. No, I'm not surprised." John's voice was low, as if he were struggling to keep quiet. "I know what you are, Sherlock, and it's hardly a shock to me when you turn into an edgy arsehole. What  _is_  surprising to me – and this is an answer to your earlier question too, if you were wondering – is that you actually found it within yourself to take the time and effort to get me where I am now. It... it's a mystery to me."

Sherlock's eyes flitted down to John's fists, knowing that would be the place in which the tension showed most; he couldn't suppress the tiny smile of justification as he saw both hands clenched, fingers curled tightly into his palms – wait, no, that wasn't right. John's cut would open. Before he had a chance to say anything he heard a derisive snort, saw the small, sharp genuflect of John's head to the side; he didn't need to physically see John's lips to know that they had twisted into a humourless smile. He could hear it in the man's voice.

"Oh, have I said something amusing? Does it, I don't know, does it make you laugh to think that I spent the last two hours trying to come up with reasons why you bothered to take care of the cut on my hand? Or why you agreed to bring me back here?" Sherlock's eyes flickered back up to John's face for a moment before darting back down to his left hand; he had to stop clenching it, now. He was going to do himself more damage. "I know, it's  _ridiculous,_  right? To wonder why you did something so... so human? I mean, the best reason I could come up with was guilt. You felt guilty for dragging me along to your enigmatic little meeting with Leroy -"

"Lewis," Sherlock interrupted, not even aware he had spoken.

The skin over John's hands tightened. "Fine. Lewis. You felt guilty for me getting hurt on the way to your illicit gathering of information or drugs or whatever you were picking up -"

"Oh, please," Sherlock snorted, tearing his eyes away from John's hand to look up at his friend's face in utter exasperation, "are you still under the misapprehension that I would take you along on a drugs collection? I already told you, I wouldn't take you with me for that." His voice lowered to a mutter. "You'd probably fall on a used needle and bleed to death..."

"Why are you so incapable of speaking to me like a human being?" John asked angrily, his voice inching up in volume as his frustration began to overflow. "Why can you not just be... be..."

"Ordinary?" Sherlock felt a strange trickle of something cold and uncomfortable down his spine, something he hadn't felt before. He had no word for it. "Decent? Friendly?" The word brought back a renewed bitterness towards John's counsellor. "Would you like me to smile more? Y'know, I could be intense too, I know how much you like that, but maybe I should crack a few jokes too?" His mind threw a curve-ball, reminding him of John's injured hand and the fist it was currently curled into; he started to step towards John, not thinking of how it would be construed during such a moment. "Tell me, John, tell me what you'd like me to be so that I can at least know how much of a disappointment I'll be to you when I fail to do all of those things, I'm  _dying_  to know -"

"Take one more step, Sherlock," John warned, his injured hand lifting and pointing, "and I  _will_  hit you."

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, mind racing, John's words not quite processing. "What?"

"I mean it." John's voice was strong, a little raw. "If you so much as reach for me I'll defend myself in a heartbeat."

 _That_  sunk in. "You... what the hell are you talking about, John?" Sherlock squinted his eyes in the darkness, trying to see at least the outline of John's features, wishing he could read them so he could see what on earth was going on in his friend's head. "For crying out loud, I'm not going to  _hit_  you."

John's entire body seemed to tense. "No? Then why are you coming towards me?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes to the ceiling, hardly believing what he was surmising, unsure whether to be amused, condescending or angry. Or all three. Or none. "Why would I hit you?"

"Because you think I want you to be something else." John's tone had changed, a note of uncertainty weaving its way into his words. "Because... because you think I want you to be ordinary."

"Well, you do. But that doesn't mean I'm going to hit you, why would I waste valuable energy on a fight I'd probably lose?"

John was quiet for a moment; Sherlock took the opportunity to gather his bearings once more, swallowing the odd and uneven flow of heat that had been threading its way through him since the beginning of the tension; god, it was all exhausting. Caring was exhausting. Well, if this was caring. Mostly it just felt like... irritation.

Maybe that was how it always felt?

John's voice in the darkness. "I didn't say that."

Sherlock needed a millisecond to recall what had been said before. "You don't need to say it aloud for it to be true. Of course you'd want me to be ordinary, you're only human." He could almost hear the moisture of John's roving eyeballs against his eyelids, the rolling of eyes practically audible. Sherlock sighed. "I didn't mean it like that, John, so please stop being so inanely sensitive. I merely meant that you can't help but wish I were... simpler. Easier." An uninvited lump rose to his throat at the idea; he cleared it away with a cough, annoyed that it had even appeared in the first place. "Anyone would wish it. But it's not who I am."

"I know," John agreed impatiently, mimicking Sherlock's stance as he folded his arms over his chest. "But I don't want you to be ordinary. If I wanted you to be ordinary, I'd... well." The tiniest of warmth in his voice – a smile. A small one, true, but a smile nonetheless. "I'd be talking to Mike in the dark instead of you."

"No you wouldn't," Sherlock said dismissively, waving his hand and whacking the words aside, "your hand wouldn't be injured and you wouldn't be sleeping on his sofa. You wouldn't be in his house. You wouldn't be arguing with him. You -"

"I get the point, Sherlock."

"So what is it, then?" That cold trickle down his spine again – what was that? Why did it keep appearing? He would have preferred the nudge in his chest over this,  _this_... well, this was just uncomfortable. He forced himself to keep talking. "What is it that you would want me to be if not this?" His large hands gestured down his body, knowing that John wouldn't see the exact motion but would hopefully understand.

John simply stood silent, seemingly staring at him.

Sherlock's patience ran out.

"Just  _tell_  me, John, stop being so frustratingly reticent. What do you want me to be?"


	29. Fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: Just a really little one today as I'm not feeling too well but felt the urge to write. Don't you just love it when it flows from your fingertips? I certainly do. Hope you enjoy it!**

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

"Just  _tell_  me John, stop being so frustratingly reticent. What do you want me to be?"

John was wishing he'd never even mentioned the idea of Sherlock being something other than himself. He hadn't meant it... or at least, he didn't  _think_  he'd meant it. There was something else, too, something wrong with the situation – Sherlock's tone was odd, an edge of desperation or a quality equatable to it making the question seem as if it wasn't as straightforward a demand as it first seemed, an extra meaning that John couldn't even begin to define. He felt his fists unclench and raise to his face, barely conscious of what he was doing as he rubbed them over his face.

 _Ouch_. He'd forgotten about his injured palm in the heat of the moment.

The tall man standing two metres from him shifted, arms falling to his sides. "I understand that it's a difficult question." A familiar mocking thread wove its way through Sherlock's voice, though the indefinable edge was still there. "Should I rephrase it?"

"No," John said, suddenly exhausted, "no, don't bother. Look, I didn't mean it. I don't... expect you to be anything else than what you are. You're fine. You're fine as you are."

"Apparently not. Apparently you'd rather I was more of a human being than I am." As Sherlock shifted again John found that his friend's face was suddenly dimly illuminated in the light coming in from outside, revealing half an expression which was incredibly difficult to read. "Is it truly so difficult to communicate with me?"

"No," John repeated. "It's not. You're fine."

Sherlock's patience was clearly wearing thin. "Stop telling me I'm fine, John, I know very well what I am." The man took a deep breath, the half of his face that John could see momentarily becoming a mask of calmness. "Perhaps this isn't the time to be having this conversation. You're tired."

"What conversation? Am I missing something?" He felt very much as if he were. "I'm not tired, or not so tired that you can't talk to me. Something's obviously on your mind, I..." He didn't know how to finish that sentence. "Talk to me, Sherlock. You're all..."

"Yes? All what?"

John sighed. " _Intense_."

"Ah." The lips that John could see twitched up into an almost insignificantly small smile. "Of course I am. And so? This is yet another part of myself that I'm seemingly unable to change and therefore something that you think to be...  _fine_."

"I... all right, yeah, it's fine. That's... good, whatever." John was becoming increasingly intent in his mission to smooth things over, to return things to normal. "You don't need to change it."

Languorous, one pace forward, half a metre closer than he was before; Sherlock advanced towards John with the all the grace of a feline. It was unnerving. John fought the urge to take a step back. "And yet you're currently holding all the tension of a stretched rubber band, John. Is that... fine? The fact that you're currently physically holding yourself in place in your desperation to move away... is that fine too?"

He was doing it on purpose. He had to be. The intensity of the atmosphere around them had shifted from uncomfortably awkward to something else entirely, not completely dissimilar to how it had been before Sherlock had fled from the room after... taking care of John's hand. Wait,  _fled_? Was that the right word? Fled would infer that there had been something to run from, but there hadn't been. Not really. The images flooded back to John as he recalled the brushing of Sherlock's thumb on his wrist, the sensation of the warm cloth in its firm strokes over his chest and finally the feel of fingertips pressing briefly, unintentionally against his bare skin -

 _Nothing to run from_ , John told himself heatedly, undoing all of the good work he'd done whilst Sherlock was gone, thinking of the things he'd determinedly ignored in the hours of Sherlock's disappearance,  _nothing at all. Get a grip._

He didn't realise he hadn't responded until Sherlock took yet another step forward; his whole face was in lacklustre viewing now, revealing the half-smile and the odd glitter in his eyes that made John suddenly feel as if he were hunted and Sherlock the hunter, a mask of pure intent set against Sherlock's long, curved face. John decided that there was no time like the present to take the first step – so he did, a foot shuffling back on the hard floor beneath him and carrying him the smallest step back and away from the man who was suddenly disturbingly unfamiliar.

The intensity wasn't at all like before. Before it had been unintentional. This... this had intent.

Sherlock's voice was so low it practically reverberated across the space between them. "Don't."

John froze, one foot behind him and the other still firmly planted on the ground; he teetered slightly, managing to steady himself without making it too obvious that he had almost lost his balance. He forced his tone to adopt a casual lilt. "Don't what?"

Sherlock did not move his stare from John's face. "Don't move away."

There was something in it... there was nothing in it. John felt his palms begin to tingle, a clamminess beginning to make itself known as he stood and tried as hard as he could to maintain eye-contact – yes, it was very much the hunter and the hunted. He did not want to break eye-contact. That would leave him vulnerable.

 _To what? To Sherlock?_  Sherlock wouldn't hurt him. That wasn't his intention.

But there  _was_  intent. He'd already figured that out.

His steady heartbeat picked up slightly.

Sherlock took another gliding step forward. "Stay exactly where you are."

John resisted the impulse to do the exact opposite. "I..." This was becoming obscene, all this tension and no viable reason for it, it was ridiculous. "Sherlock, we just need to talk about what...whatever's bothering you. You're..." Why was he struggling to find words? It was as if he couldn't get enough oxygen, his rapidly accelerating heart berating him for not breathing enough. He took in a deep, unexpectedly staggered breath. "You're not... yourself."

A low laugh, a rumble in the back of the white throat that was steadily getting closer. "No, John, this is  _exactly_  who I am. This is what you want from me. You said it yourself."

"I don't understand," John stressed, putting his hands out in front of him as if to physically stop Sherlock's advance – then again, that might be his last hope of righting the situation, if it came to it. "I didn't say that. Are you drunk? Did you have brandy with Mycroft?"

"Why are you so intent on defending yourself?" The question was full of genuine curiosity. "Do you think I'm going to hurt you?"

John felt his fists start to clench again, the clammy texture of his palms uncomfortable. "No, I – you have been drinking, haven't you?" That would explain it, that would absolutely explain it. "Look, sit down, we can -"

"You said that you wanted who I was, what I am, however you want to phrase it." John searched what was visible of his friend's face for a sign of inebriation, anything that would explain his behaviour. There was nothing. Nothing. "And this is it. You said yourself that I have a habit of being intense, quite without my knowledge."

Which obviously wasn't the case now. The words left John's lips without his permission. "But you know what you're doing  _now_."

Sherlock allowed a tiny nod. "Indeed. Does that change your mind about me? About our relationship?"

He couldn't stop himself. "Friendship."

**-X-**

Sherlock failed to cease the small exhale of air from between his teeth; it was his fault, he had allowed the situation to become something that it shouldn't be and he had let the word fly from his tongue without a single thought as to what he was saying. Of course John was still blissfully ignorant – or not so blissful, if the palpable strain currently rolling through John's tense body was anything to go by – and had simply assumed that Sherlock had used the wrong term, or the wrong term for what John deemed it to be, at least. But Sherlock was not ignorant. He was so aware of it at that moment that he was steadily losing control of his resolve to allow John to figure things out in his own time. It was the reason behind the intentional increasing level of intensity in the room and the reason that he was watching John's every movement in order to read as accurately as he could in the darkness how John was reacting to it.

He had to compromise in his response. He wouldn't force it, but he wouldn't overlook it either.

"Call it whatever you want to call it, it's not particularly important right now. Does this -" he extended a hand towards John and back to himself, " - change your desire to... know me?"

John looked away, turning his head to the side; his profile again, slightly visible in the dim light and his steady adjustment to the darkness. He could see the tension in John's jaw, the flicker of muscle beneath the skin. It shook his resolve further still.

"No," his best friend responded tightly. "It's fi-"

No. No, he would not say that damned word again. Sherlock took the remaining few strides to close the distance between them and reached out with an impatient hand, grasping the wrist of John's tightly clenched left hand and dragging it towards him, the bandage practically brushing against his cheek as he pulled it up beside his face. His entire body pulsed with unfamiliar heat as he came quite as close to John as he had ever been, so close that he could now accurately read the confusion and brief flash of panic on his friend's face, close enough that the scent of him which rose up and clouded around him was almost overwhelming. His mind quickly raced with errant and useless thoughts, his conversation with Mycroft earlier at the very forefront – he had told his brother that he had no sexual desire towards John yet there was something about the body-warmth emanating from the shorter man in front of him that made him wonder if he perhaps had spoken too soon, the effect on his inability to focus rendering him into a state of clarity and awareness that made him feel quite overpowered by his senses. He took a dragging breath inwards, cursing himself at doing so as it was almost as if he were  _tasting_  John... oh, he was so out of his depth now. His body was responding, humming – no, it wasn't sexual, it wasn't quite that; the part of himself that should be making itself known in its frustratingly obvious way hadn't yet kicked into gear, he didn't feel the urge to do anything other than breathe his best friend in, he didn't want to...  _touch_  him, not like that, though he was devastatingly aware of his fingertips against John's hot skin and knew that he liked it, knew that it was a good feeling and one that he wanted all to himself...

The idea of someone else ever being as close to John as he was now filled him with a fierce sense of possession that was very much akin to being lit on fire, from the very depths of his stomach streaking upwards all through his torso.

He breathed the name as if it were the only word left in his vocabulary.

" _John._ "

He caught it the moment it appeared – the almost delicious flicker of resistance against John's torn expression. He felt the shudder of weakness that resonated through John's body, saw the separation of lips as a stuttered exhale of breath fell against Sherlock's throat. He liked that. He liked that a lot. He wanted more of it, wanted more moments of John not being able to pretend – because surely he was pretending. Surely he couldn't miss the intent behind Sherlock's intensity.

He had to know. He had to know if there was any possibility that John would eventually come to realise, if not his own possible feelings, then at least the reality of Sherlock's.


	30. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: AND UNTO THIS DAY A CHAPTER WAS BORN. Enjoy, my darlings! COMMENTS ARE SNUGGLED AND LOVED AND WHISPERED SWEET NOTHINGS TO!**

**Chapter Thirty**

"Sher..." The word was interrupted by a breath hitching in the smaller man's throat, a fluttering of eyelids as they closed against Sherlock's heated gaze; no, Sherlock wanted to see, he wanted to see every colour in John's eyes and every heightening of emotion. Action had to be taken, evidence had to be analysed. This was not acceptable, the avoidance of the situation had to be discontinued.

Sherlock brought his thumb lightly over the bandage wrapped around John's injured hand and let it trail back to the wrist, the delicate skin and its myriad of veins beneath the gentle pressure seeming to rise and yearn against him – his own eyes found themselves closing as he felt the pace of John's pulse quicken, storing the information away and knowing that he would foolishly replay it a thousand times under the canopy of darkness in his bedroom. He inhaled deeply, the tiniest of growls aching in the back of his throat as he tasted John once more, forcing his eyes to open and focus on the almost pained level of intensity on John's face – a face that Sherlock had memorised, without his realisation. He knew every crease, every dip, every curve. He wanted to see his favourite half-smile, because against his better judgement he had allowed the concept of 'favourites' to enter his system like a drug; he had picked, chosen, acknowledged these favourites and now wanted them all in front of him so that he could feast on them and make himself believe that he wasn't simply going insane and that this weakness could be made a strength were John to feel the way that he did.  _Feel_. The concept was still novel, frustrating, damaging but it was the same sort of damage caused by the pinprick of a needle and shimmering golden liquid – an addict, he was an addict and he knew it and at that moment he did not care because he was getting his fill and feeling the fierce rush of adrenaline through his body.

When he could stand the blind ignorance of his best friend no more he forced the words from his lips; he did not sound like himself, he was possessed, utterly transformed. He had not wanted something this much in his entire life.

"Look at me."

A shudder, a tightening of John's strong jaw. A hiss of two, simple letters. "No."

He tightened his grip on the wrist he held so close to himself, his thumb skating once more over the incalescent skin beneath his grasp. "Do it. Look at me, now."

John's hand curled into a fist by his ear, a small grunt of pain from the man's lips as he felt the repercussions of his actions. "I can't."

"It's a simple act, John, I am not asking the world of you." Yes he was. He was. He knew it. "Open your eyes and stop being so unfailingly stubborn."

"I'm not stub-"

"You are, you are and it is the most frustrating trait. You are the most stubborn, ignorant man I have ever met and I am asking you for the final time, John, to open your eyes and just  _look_  at me."

It was a challenge and Sherlock had no intention of recalling it; he knew that John would latch onto it, would react to it, would in the very least feel that familiar rush of frustration at being called both stubborn and ignorant in the same sentence – two things that Sherlock knew very well to be traits that John associated with the genius currently holding a grip that fell beyond the physical and stretched into... well. Whatever this was. He had the control, he held with within his fingers and he was challenging John to take it back. It was the only way.

John's eyelids snapped upwards, his eyes hazed and – mm, yes, frustrated. Certainly this was one of the occasions that Sherlock was pleased to be proved eternally right.

"Stop this now."

Sherlock's thumb pressed hard against the thrumming pulse, reading, analysing. "Tell me why."

John would not meet his eyes; instead he seemed to focus his gaze upon the hollow of Sherlock's throat – naturally, of course. It was directly in front of his natural eyeline. "You're too... you're taking it too far." He seemed to be taking care with his words, breathing in deeply through his nose – attempting to calm himself. "You've proved your point, I acknowledge that you're pissed off at me for insinuating that I want you to change but this isn't... this is too far, Sherlock." The mottled blue eyes flickered momentarily to his before darting back down; was that a flush to his cheeks? If Sherlock had any resolve left it was slowly evaporating, every word John spoke and every breath taken was shaking his willpower and this would not end well. "Just... please. Let go. Move. I can't."

Sherlock tilted his chin slightly, knowing his arrogance would edge John further towards unmasking himself. "Can't what? Vague, so vague, it's infuriating."

"Let go."

"No."

"Sherlock -" John dragged his stare up to meet his taller friend's own blazing look – another erratic hammering of a heartbeat, a flash of confusion and, ah, yes, a definite dilation of pupils. Evidence. More evidence to collate. "I am asking you... nicely... to let go of my wrist and step back. I am tired and this is all just too much of a twisted power-play and I  _don't have the patience to deal with it right now._ "

"Are you afraid of me?"

The question took John by surprise; his head twitched, eyes narrowed. "Don't be stupid. I told, you I don't have -"

"Then it must be enjoyment." John wasn't wrong. It was a game of power and Sherlock had it. But he needed it. He needed to know. "Admit it."

John's eyes narrowed further still. "What are you talking about?"

Grasping the wrist tightly between his fingers and dragging it further over his shoulder, Sherlock felt a fierce rush of exhilaration surge through the tension as John's body was pulled against his own, the sound of a sharp intake of breath crawling into the whorl of his ears and the feel of potential energy being pushed aside making him want to hiss with the sensation of every moment. "This." His long fingers spread out over the area of skin they had commandeered, feeling new skin and new heat. He watched with ferocious attention to detail as John's lips separated and his eyes widened, oh, he was so addicted to all of it, every second. "Push aside your wretched ignorance for one moment, John, and acknowledge your symptoms. Accelerated pulse." This time it was his index and middle finger that brushed over the skin of John's wrist, his thumb staying put on the rapid pulsing of blood through veins. "Heightened body temperature." He shifted even closer to John, his own breathing starting to flow out in staggered gusts, betraying his own enjoyment. Resolve was a thing of the past. "Dilated pupils." His stare was as intent as ever, willing the truth of it to be transferred over the pitiful distance. "This, John,  _this..._  it happened earlier, it's happened before now, all of this, you must understand it by now. You  _have_  to understand." He breathed the words onto John's own lips, making them his. "You. Are. Enjoying. This."

**-X-**

Throwing the covers from his legs, Greg groaned loudly as he forced himself to sit up. His mouth felt as it were full of sand. Tasted a bit rank too. Whatever had been in that curry had not sat well with him, that much was obvious – his stomach had been churning since he'd left Lauren's flat, the burning acidity that came with heartburn tingling in the back of his throat and keeping him awake. He'd ignored it as best as he could but it was getting ridiculous now. He had to have a drink of water, or anything cold – maybe milk. Just something to soothe it a little.

He left the room as quietly as he could, not wanting to wake up John – god knows what he and Sherlock had been up to. He wasn't a complete idiot, he knew that Sherlock did some seriously stupid shit whenever he left the house but he and Mycroft had both agreed that it was at least better than indulging in his heroin habit, so mostly Greg didn't bother asking about it; he couldn't deny though that now his curiosity had been raised. John was hurt – the bandage had given that away – and he had no doubt whatsoever that it was Sherlock's fault. Mycroft had thought so too. He knew that when Sherlock found out that he had sent a text to Mycroft to keep him updated with the situation that he'd be pissed off but that was essentially what Greg was here for; he was a spy. A well-kept spy.

And, y'know, he did actually enjoy Sherlock's odd company. More so since John had come along. Whatever effect the mousey-haired man was having on Sherlock it was clearly a good one, and Greg wasn't going to complain about it. It was easier since Sherlock had confirmed his suspicions that the two of them weren't a couple. Less awkward. Less images of the two of them doing things that Greg had never wanted to imagine in the first place.

He shuffled down the stairs as silently as he could manage, avoiding the fourth creaky step and grasping the banister so tightly his knuckles went white. He eventually managed to reach the bottom with a careful hop over the creaky floorboard at the bottom and began to step carefully down the hallway and towards the kitchen -

Murmured voices from the room to his right; Greg turned towards the noise. He heard John's quiet voice, closely followed by words from a lower, deeper register – so, Sherlock was home. He'd have to text Mycroft. He didn't even consider the idea that the light was off for a reason or that Sherlock's final murmur – just John's name – might signify something he may not want to see; no, instead he simply walked to the doorway without pause and flicked the light switch.

Two pairs of eyes flew towards him.

His mouth fell open.

**-X-**

John did not waste a single moment; he tore his wrist from Sherlock's grasp and found himself taking three, four, five unsteady steps back until his legs hit the edge of Sherlock's armchair, struggling to keep his balance and remain upright. The light in the room brought everything into startling reality, the shock on Greg's pale face and the all too familiar indifference smoothing out the creases and edges of Sherlock's previously taut, intense expression – he found he could not look directly at his best friend, instead finding his eyes flitting to the ground and focusing on the patterned rug beneath his feet. The silence was deafening, worse than the thoughts currently shouting at him from every corner of his head... and there were a lot of them. They were racing and his heart was still pounding and he still had no idea what the hell had just happened and what was going on in Sherlock's brain, or maybe he had some idea and no desire to even consider it – christ, he was just confused. He was confused as all hell and now Greg was looking between them with his hand still on the light switch and he had no clue what he should say.

Greg spoke first, his voice full of the same uncertainty that John himself was feeling. "Uh... sorry. Sorry. I heard... um, voices. I didn't... yeah."

John glanced up at him and saw the man staring at him – yep, there was the bewilderment. And concern. Definitely concern. He had to force himself to speak, to smooth the situation... but what situation was that? What the hell had just happened? "No, it's fine, we were just..." His eyes betrayed him, flickering to look at Sherlock; the genius was looking at neither of them, staring instead at the clock in the dining room. "...talking."

The smallest of laughs from Sherlock and the twist of an unfamiliar smile; there was no warmth in it whatsoever as he turned his head and looked directly at John for the briefest of moments, eyes full of derision and disbelief. They stood that way for a while, John looking at Sherlock, Sherlock looking at John and Greg looking between them both as he lifted a hand to the back of his head and scratched the edge of his ear with all the awkwardness of a boy who had just walked in on their parents having sex.

Greg broke the silence again. "Right. I was just..." he pointed towards the kitchen with a finger, eyes still not knowing which man to look at, "...going to get a glass of water. Heard voices."

"So you decided to interrupt?" Sherlock's voice was cold, sending the temperature of the room down by degrees. Greg blinked, mouth hanging open. "Didn't consider the idea that perhaps we were having a private conversation?"

"Sherlock," John warned quietly, shaking his head once, "leave it."

The look Sherlock shot him was of pure ice. "Why?"

_Why? Let me count the bloody reasons._  "Because Greg hasn't done anything wrong and you're acting like an arsehole. Just let him go and get his water."

"Look, guys, I'm sorry. I'll bugger off and -"

"Yes, please do," Sherlock muttered, turning away from them and walking into the dining room. "Perhaps next time you could knock."

"Yeah." Greg stepped back, ready to bolt. "Sure. Sorry."

"And stop apologising. You sound like an imbecile."

John folded his arms tight over his chest, starting to feel a little pissed off. "Sherlock, seriously, just shut up all right? Stop being a prick, he's apologising for something he doesn't even need to apologise for -"

"He interrupted us," Sherlock interrupted, eyes flashing. "I wasn't finished."

John straightened his back, shoulders rolling back. "No? What exactly were you planning to do next?"

Greg took another step back, realising he really didn't want to witness this; neither of them noticed. Sherlock did not turn. "It doesn't matter now. The moment is over."

Moment? What moment? "Y'know, I still have no idea what you're talking about. You chastise me for being vague and you're not even communicating to me what is  _actually_  going on."

Sherlock whirled around. "Oh? How about... let me see..." He rolled his eyes. "How about enjoyment? Wouldn't you say  _that_  was what was 'going on'? I thought I'd made that abundantly clear to you."

John's cheeks flushed. Christ. This was just... it made no sense. "Believe me, Sherlock, nothing about that situation was enjoyable. I can't see what could possibly be enjoyable about you going off on a power trip and taking advantage of me when I'm -"

Something flashed across Sherlock's face, ceasing John's words mid-sentence, making them trail off into a very awkward silence; his expression took on a mix of emotion, twisted from the original mocking smirk as it combined with something... what was it? Disappointment? Hurt? No, no, it was... guilt. Genuine guilt. Sherlock's lips separated with words he seemingly couldn't form, his eyes narrowing as he looked away and to Greg in the doorway, but it was clear to John that he wasn't really  _seeing_  Greg, or anything for that matter. The silence lingered for almost a full minute, Greg sneaking a look at John almost as if to ask what was happening – John offered him a shrug, still frowning, still confused.

Sherlock started to move, turning to John and then away again; eventually he seemed to take steps towards Greg, the doorway.

"I'm going to bed." His voice was low, all irritation and condemnation completely wiped from his tone; instead it was simply empty, wholly hollow. Odd. Worrying. "Change your bandages before you leave. You're bleeding."

Greg stepped quickly out of the way as Sherlock took lithe steps to the stairs, taking them two at a time and not looking back as he made his way to the bedroom; there was the sound of a door opening and closing quietly, footsteps on the ceiling above them and finally nothing, no sound at all.

"John?"

Greg walked slowly into the room, raising his hands to gesture above him. His eyes were questioning, not so much as curious as just completely and utterly bemused – and John was right with him. The last few minutes had seemed to fly by in a mess of confusion, drama and tension and John was so far beyond comprehension that he felt a very huge urge to storm up those stairs, crash through Sherlock's bedroom door and demand an explanation.

He'd never seen Sherlock look so beaten before.

Greg cleared this throat. "So... any ideas?"

John felt his head shake, though in truth he was feeling a little numb. "My guess is as good as yours." He walked hazily towards the sofa and let himself fall back onto it, his eyes out of focus as he stared in the direction of the fireplace. "I have no bloody idea what the hell just happened and I was here the whole time."

Hesitant, Greg shuffled further into the room and over to the armchair; he looked at it for a moment before making a small grunting noise, a 'fuck it' if there ever was one – he perched on the edge and leaned forward on his elbows. "Would it piss you off if I asked you what I walked in on? I mean," he put his hands out, widening his eyes, "it's none of my fucking business and you can tell me to bugger off and leave you alone but... well, you know."

They looked at each other; John nodded, exasperated. "Mycroft."

"I promised to look out for Sherlock," Greg said simply, shrugging. "And... it's my responsibility to make sure he's not in danger of hurting himself. In any sense of the word."

What an odd way to phrase it. "Hurting himself? What, you think he's going to try and get some more heroin or something?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Greg parroted, his gaze open and frank. "But that's not really what I meant."

John rubbed his hands down his face, realising too late that his palm felt as if it were on fire and that it was, in fact, bleeding – just as Sherlock had said. He sighed and untucked the material from its place, starting to unwind it. "I've just spent an evening musing over the words and actions of a man who is possibly  _the_  most ambiguous man I've ever known, so please ask me to read into whatever you're trying to say, just... say it." He looked up as the last piece of bandage fell from his hand, revealing a blood-streaked palm and very angry-looking cut. "If it's not too much to ask."

Greg looked at him in sheer disbelief. "Are you... right, yeah, you're actually serious. Bloody hell."

Reaching over to the packet of antiseptic wipes sitting on the coffee table, John frowned. "What? What are you so surprised about?"

A grin spread across Greg's face, his eyes still round with incredulity as he looked at John as if trying to assess some sort of second meaning to his words. "You – John. Come on. You know what's going on here, surely. Even  _I_  can see it and I'm one of the most ignorant people you'll ever know!"

"Not according to Sherlock," John muttered, wiping a little too hard at the cut and making it start bleeding again. "According to him  _I'm_  the most ignorant person he's ever met." He hissed through his teeth. "Shit. This hurts."

"Yeah, well, Sherlock's usually right." Greg was still staring at him with that 'look' on his face, not dissimilar from the one that Sherlock tended to use when he was wondering how John could be quite so ridiculously slow. "You're actually telling me – no, I'm really asking, don't look at me like that – you're telling me that you have no idea what all of this is about?"

" _Yes_ ," John stressed the word, reaching for a new bandage, "yes Greg, that's what I'm telling you. What, can you make more sense of it? You saw... what happened." The images shot through his mind, the darkness and the intensity and Sherlock's breath on his lips. His stomach jolted. "You aren't blind."

"Yeah, you're right,  _I'm_  not."

"Christ." John threw the bandage down. "Stop insinuating and just  _tell_  me! I'm tired!"

"Fine. I saw you. I saw you two, standing in the dark with Sherlock up in your face, his hand holding your wrist and you two pretty much pressed up against one another. I saw it." Greg's tone was disturbingly matter-of-fact. "It was a... damned compromising position to be found in."

"Compromising." John shook his head slowly from side to side, head starting to hurt. "No. No, it wasn't like that. It's not what you're thinking."

Greg laughed. "It was  _exactly_  what I'm thinking."

"Well obviously not, because if your tone is suggesting what I think you're suggesting -"

"I'm not suggesting, John, I'm saying very clearly that it is what it is." Greg shrugged, looking up at the ceiling and then back to John. "Jesus, the whole room felt like a fucking furnace when I walked in."

John could not wrap his head around it for love nor money. "We were just talking, Greg. Sherlock was getting carried away with this big power trip after I said some thing I shouldn't have and he was the one who -"

"Well yeah," Greg was laughing again, "of course it was Sherlock. I could tell that just by looking at your face when I walked in."

"So..." John picked up the bandage again, not really focusing as he started to wrap it over his hand once again. "You... no. Right. I'm confused. And tired. But mostly confused. We were talking and he was getting carried away. Nothing compromising about it. So what exactly did  _you_  think you'd walked into?"

"John." Greg was suddenly earnest, looking intently at the man who quickly glanced away and was now looking hard at the bandage as if it were a life or death situation to get it positioned just right. "You were  _inches_  from each other."

"Because he was getting carr-"

"You are so fucking in denial," Greg cut across exasperatedly, torn between a grin and a grimace. "That or you are genuinely even stupider than I am."

John's hands slowed on the bandage and eventually came to a stop; he forced himself to think about what Greg was saying, feeling the exhaustion starting to creep into his body and making him feel very much like he wanted to tell Greg to bugger off and leave him alone – but then again, maybe it wasn't exhaustion at all. His eyes raised to meet Greg's honest gaze, trying to understand. Because maybe exhaustion was cloaking something else.

And maybe he just really didn't want to face it.

He spoke, quieter now than before. "Greg. Please."

Greg's eyes glittered with something similar to sympathy, his lips opening for a moment before he actually uttered anything. "You're right, okay? You're right. Sherlock got carried away."

"Exactly -"

"Mycroft sent me a text before I came downstairs."

John nodded slowly. "All right... about Sherlock?"

"Yeah."

"Can I ask what it said?"

Greg sighed. "It said that Sherlock had told him what he and I had already talked about. What we'd thought was going to happen."

John was starting to feel his irritation rise again. "Still not being specific enough, Greg, because I have no idea what you and Mycroft talked about."

The dark-haired man hesitated, trying to piece the right words together. "Did Sherlock ever tell you about what I realised from what happened at the party?"

"During Ring of Fire?" John nodded, brow creasing slightly. "About us not being in a relationship? Yeah, he told me. He told me he was going to talk to Mycroft about it too, clear everything up."

"Right. So that's what he told you." Greg nodded, his teeth peeking over his lower lip to nibble on it. "I can see why you... okay. Look, John -" He leaned over a little further, eyes narrowing slightly, " - that isn't what I said to him."

John blinked. "What?"

"Yeah. I didn't say that I didn't think you weren't in a relationship. He's... heavily paraphrasing."

"...all right. So..." John waited.

Greg bit his lip again, worrying away at it. "I told him that it was obvious that you guys weren't... doing it."

"Doing... it?"

"Sex." Greg clarified this with a brief roll of his eyes. "I told him that you weren't having sex. And he agreed."

John stared at him, nonplussed. "Well, that's fine. Because we're not."

"I know."

"So what's the problem?"

"He..." Greg sighed, suddenly looking as exhausted as John felt. "He's a bastard. If he'd just told you what I'd actually said none of this would have even happened and he -"

"GREG."

"Fine, fine! I told him that it was obvious where this was going and that needed to realise what the fuck was going to happen and do something about it."

John's stomach twisted into an uncomfortable, awkward knot and refused to budge even as he cleared his throat and shifted with the intention of clearing and shifting the unwelcome weight. "Okay... but what exactly do you think is going to happen?"

An almost pitying smile. "Yeah, well, it's a bit late now. It's already happened."

His mind started to nudge him, push him, tell him to back away and get out of the room; it knew. His instincts knew. He was harshly aware that he was about to ask a question he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer to yet, for the life of him, he could not stop himself.

"Just... tell me. Quickly."

A brief moment where Greg genuinely seemed to consider it – but no, he was pushing himself up off the armchair and rubbing his hair roughly with his hands, shaking his head and grinning almost as if wondering how he had let it get this far. "Nah, no, y'know what? I can't do it. He has to do this himself, it's not fair on him -"

"It's not fair on me to keep me in the dark about something that is  _clearly_ going to start becoming a problem!" John was adamant despite his better judgement, his stomach fluttering and his palms starting to sweat once more, just like it had before with bloody Sherlock and before Greg had walked into the bloody room. "Please, just... you have to tell me. I can't guess this, I can't figure it out on my own and I don't even know if I want to, so just tell me. Get it out. Tell me and stop trying to protect either one of us as you're clearly trying to do." He leaned forward. " _Please_."

Greg wavered for only a moment before he offered his wide open palms to John, an offering, or perhaps an apology.

"John. He's falling in love with you, mate."


	31. Indulge Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: NEW CHAPTER ALERT! READ IT NOW! READ ITTTTT! Comments are serenaded to.**

**Chapter Thirty-One**

The woman stared at him.

He stared back.

She twitched her glasses and tilted her head to the side.

He narrowed his eyes.

Her lips separated and then closed again, pressing against each other until they went white.

He smirked.

Nina Reece cleared her throat, taking off her glasses and leaning forward on her chair to rest her elbows on the table. "William, we've been here for ten minutes and you have yet to answer any of my questions. _Obviously_ you're here for a reason but as of yet..." She opened her hands out, a veritable shrug; he watched her rub the side of her finger with the tip of her thumb, pressing her lips together again. So he was making her nervous. Good. "Well. As of yet I have no real idea of why you're here."

"You've read the form that I was forced to submit. It's really quite redundant to ask a question you already know the answer to."

She blinked, lips opening; he saw the glistening tip of her tongue as it dried out quickly, too quickly – yes, she was most definitely not comfortable with him. Her outward actions and words said otherwise, she had been doing this a long time and knew what she had to do, but the little things were giving her away. Not that she was aware of this. Nobody ever was.

"I feel that in an introductory session it's important to hear from you, in your own words, what led you to seek out counselling. Your notes are really only a guideline and -"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, foot bouncing slightly in his impatience as he crossed his legs. "Unless someone has doctored the notes that I sent to your receptionist I'm relatively certain that they are indeed in my own words. I was very specific."

The tiniest of sighs and such an insignificant twitch of her brow that were she sitting opposite anybody else it would no doubt go unnoticed. She plucked the notes from the desk in front of her but did not read them. "It's necessary for your own personal development if you tell me now, directly, why you're here. I understand completely that seeking out a counsellor is a big step and one that was clearly taken as, ah, a _last resort_." She gave him a forced smile, supposedly to make him feel at ease. "But talking to me now is imperative in order to -"

"Establish trust. I'm aware."

"Well then." She stared at him intently. "Would you care to indulge me?"

A voice in his head. Not his own.

" _...whether you like it or not, Sherlock, I_ will _worry about you. No matter how much you tell me not to, that you can handle it, I'm still going to worry. And it would make me feel a lot better about all of this if you took the first step with me."_

"William?"

He jerked his head slightly in irritation. "Don't interrupt me."

Her considerably hairy brow wrinkled in confusion. "You weren't speaking."

Sherlock sighed, looking at her with deep consternation. "I was _thinking_. Indulge me, won't you?"

She didn't like that, didn't like having her words thrown back at her; her lips pursed unattractively, leaning back on her chair and clearly starting an attempt to analyse him. "Do you often find yourself acting defensively when faced with an uncomfortable situation?"

His icy eyes narrowed. "Oh, please. Is that really the best you can do?"

"Work with me," she insisted, steepling her fingers together and nodding in what she seemed to think was an encouraging way. "It will benefit you, I assure you."

The voice again. _"Just... do it with me. Do it with me and maybe it'll feel a little easier to walk in there knowing I'm not the only one preparing to lay myself open to a complete stranger."_

"Go away, John," he muttered, fingers starting to flick at the arm of the chair. Nina narrowed her own dull grey eyes, picking up on the murmur and leaping on it like a lifeline.

"John? Who's John?"

His eyes flickered to hers and burned. No. "Not up for discussion."

A smile flitted across her face. Smug. He wanted to psychoanalyse her until she wept. John was off-limits. "Is he the one who encouraged you to attend counselling?"

"Not. Up. For. Discussion."

"Well, he's on your mind. Maybe he _should_ be up for discussion." She shrugged, picking up a pen and starting to fiddle with it. "As you don't seem to want to talk about whatever brought you here."

Sherlock's jaw tightened. "If you're deliberately trying to antagonise me into responding you are going to be sorely disappointed."

"I'm not trying to antagonise you, William. I'm trying to find something that you're willing to talk about. You _are_ here for a reason," she said, suddenly sounding terribly fair, "but as you seem unwilling to discuss it at this point in time I would like to find something that you _do_ feel able to talk about."

He stared at her for a long time before answering. "I am not unwilling. I just find the idea of this... _session_... pointless."

"Pointless? But you're here, after all." Her head tilted to the side again, questioning. He decided to allow her this.

"It was not my idea."

"Yes, I'd worked that out." She offered him a small smile. He did not return it, but he refrained from narrowing his eyes. "So. John?"

Sherlock did not know how to make his point any clearer. "If you insist on bringing his name into this -"

"I was referring to the person who encouraged you to come here. Was it John?"

He did not know how to answer. Perhaps the truth. This once. "Yes."

She nodded, putting down the pen she'd been fiddling with and eyeing him closely. "So. John gave you the motivation to sign up for counselling. But what motivated you to walk in here today? I know that you don't _want_ to be here, yet here you are sitting in front of me and you have yet to walk out despite the assumption that I'm trying to antagonise you. Something is keeping you here, William, and I really would like it if you could tell me what that 'something' is."

He sighed.

"I am here because I promised to be. I am here out of loyalty to a friend, not in order to actually divulge about my heroin addiction."

"But would John have wanted to you to open up, surely? If you signed up for him and came here for him, he must have some expectations in regards to what you say to me?"

"John has no expectations of me," Sherlock replied shortly, narrowing his glacial eyes. "It is one of the reasons I agreed to come here in the first place. It was a request, not a demand." He looked away for a moment before reluctantly looking back at her questioning gaze. He repeated his initial assessment. "John has no expectations of me."

Nina smiled slightly. "No expectations." Something flickered behind her eyes, something akin to interest – clearly she had picked up on something. He had already said too much about the very subject he had identified as not up for discussion just moments ago. "Everybody has expectations."

Sherlock did not want to discuss it. He did not. That, however, did not stop him from speaking, almost as if he was not in control of his mouth. It was starting to become a problem. "From the moment we met he made it clear that he did not need me, did not require anything from me. His emotional state is not stable, he could easily ask the world and not think twice, yet he still has only ever asked this one small favour of me and I have followed it through out of respect for his wishes. His expectations of me are, if in existence, very limited."

She wrote something down. He clenched his jaw. "How long have you known John?"

Sherlock eyed her closely. "Over a month."

Another miniscule twitch of her heavy eyebrows. "That's a relatively short space of time considering -"

"Considering what?"

She observed him from across the desk, looking no more harmless than a fly yet already she had somehow slipped from him information he had been intent not to release. He had underestimated her. "Most of the time I hear that people have been encouraged to seek counselling by family members, close friends, people who have seen you at your best and your worst and have seen the process of change before their very eyes. It says here that your addiction started at…" she glanced down at the piece of paper in front of her, "…seventeen. You've known John for a significantly small period of time since your struggle began and yet he's the only one who has managed to have an effect enough to convince you that you should consider coming to see me. Not only did you consider it but you're sitting here in front of me. It's interesting."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. " _Interesting_. Well. I'm glad I'm of some entertainment to you."

She disregarded the comment. "What makes John so different that he had such an effect on you?"

Too close to the bone. "Not up for discussion."

"On the contrary he seems to be the _only_ thing that you're willing to discuss. I'd even go so far as to say that you _want_ to discuss him."

He had _definitely_ underestimated her. "I was under the impression that you weren't supposed to lead the conversation."

"I make exceptions when I need to. Everybody is different."

Sherlock's long fingers picked at a loose thread on the arm of his chair. "I'm relatively certain that would be considered unprofessional."

She offered him a smile, the first genuine one since he had walked in. "I prefer 'effective'. And, so. John. What makes him different?"

The first threads of a begrudging respect started to wind their way into Sherlock's opinion of her. Yes, it was an effective approach. How irritating. "There is nothing definitive about it. He just is."

"Do you have many friends?"

The change of topic jarred him. "I… no. Friends are unnecessary."

"But then," she raised her hands in a questioning gesture, "John seems to bely that attitude. So there must be something that sets him apart."

"I told you." His voice was steely. "He has no expectations. He is the first person I've ever observed who expects so little from people, particularly me. It takes a considerable amount to surprise me yet he did that from the very first moment we spoke."

She nodded, writing something else down. "And how _did_ you meet John?"

Sherlock hesitated; all right, so he was discussing John, but he did not feel it was necessary to divulge to his woman information that John struggled himself to admit. It would be inappropriate. He would simply leave out certain information. "His academic situation was… precarious. He was referred to me by one of the faculty members."

"Referred to you?"

"I'm a Personal Academic Tutor," he informed her, speaking the term as if it had little import. "I offer aid to students who are struggling in their studies and cultivate an effective learning plan for them in order to improve their academic standing."

She put down her pen. "I see. That sounds like a lot of work."

"Not particularly."

This interested her. "Do you have a lot of students to advise?"

She knew exactly which questions to ask, everything relevant. "No."

Her gaze was open, her eyes revealing without question that she knew exactly what he meant. She still asked the question.

"How many?"

He waited a few moments before answering. "Just the one."

"Mm." She tapped her fingers on the edge of the desk. He replicated the movement without realising it. "So, yet again, John is an anomaly."

It surprised him how much he liked that analysis. "Yes. In all things."

It was too intimate a statement to make; he could see the spark in her eyes and could feel his stomach start to curl and tense at his own admission, an odd sense of vulnerability starting to creep into his person and forcing him to fight the urge to stand up and leave without so much as speaking another word – fighting the urge. He was fighting it. He was not giving into it. Something was keeping him here. He had to say something.

Sherlock's throat was tight. "Isn't this session supposed to be merely introductory? We've been here some time."

She was unrelenting. "I have no one else to see today."

"I…" It was such a struggle. He felt the urge to tell her everything, the desire overwhelming him and making him feel infinitely weak. "This cannot continue."

"William." She leaned forward in her seat and was looking at him with such warm eyes that he suddenly saw John leaning across from him instead, his eyes kind, non-judgemental. After last night he was unsure he would ever see that look again. It made him feel sick. He had to get out. "What are you so afraid of?"

The question tore something within him. The hole had already been there. It had widened. It was painful. The words fell out of him like a gunshot, low and emotionless and so hollow it echoed in his head.

"Rejection."

He did not miss her own eyes widening in surprise, her professionalism disappearing for a moment as she absorbed the damning meaning of the word; she leaned back again, relaxing into her chair as she stared at him in astonishment. "That's very bold, William."

Sherlock could only stare back at her.

"To admit fear of rejection, to even admit that there is something you've offered that could be rejected…"

"It's pathetic," he said bluntly, unforgiving. "It was not my intention to speak of it. Of anything."

"You feel weak." It was not a question.

"Obviously."

"Then you're under a misapprehension." Her words were almost stern. It was better than the warmth. "It takes strength, not weakness, to open up to someone."

His eyes were empty as he regarded her. "Then please explain to me why I feel so frustratingly impuissant. Tell me how it is that I have opened myself up further than I have to anyone else in my life before and yet, rather than strong, I simply feel… lackadaisical. Torpid." He stopped posturing about with his vocabulary and repeated his initial evaluation. "Weak."

Sherlock did not need to say aloud that he was no longer talking about her or their session. She knew that he was talking about John. Thinking about John. Here for John. _Because_ of John. He had not been lying when he had said he was not here to discuss his heroin addiction. He was here for his _other_ addiction.

The counsellor knew it. "You've never felt a connection to another person like this before?"

He laughed, a pitiful sound of utter derision, wholly directed at himself. "Absolutely not."

"Is he…" She was choosing her words with care. "Hm. Is he aware?"

Sherlock shifted slightly in his seat, his vulnerability cloaking him and making him throw out a defensive shield against her. "Aware of what?"

Nina said nothing, simply waited. It was effective. She was very good. The respect grew.

He cleared his throat, the sound reminding him of John in an awkward situation. He'd heard of people who shared a close bond starting to mimic the other. Perhaps that was what he was doing. Fool. "I believe he is… ignorant to the situation."

"Have you considered telling him?"

"Telling him what, exactly?" His throat was tight again, limiting the emotion in his words despite the surge of them. He hated his hormones. He hated this lack of control. He wished he was thirty years old, forty, certain that if he were older he would at least be able to ignore his growing feelings and come to a point that he could stand by and watch John move on with his life, fall in love elsewhere, marry, have children. "That there is no man better, warmer, more considerate? That he is the most simple, endearing, trustworthy creature I've ever come across? That I…" He stopped, waiting for the mania threatening to erupt from his chest to calm and settle. "No. No, I cannot tell him. That much is obvious."

She picked up on it immediately. "You've tried?"

"I made a fool of myself," he muttered, shaking his curly head and feeling the blunt jab of his memories threatening to overwhelm him. The look on John's face. The confusion. The disbelief at his absurd actions. "On the very same day that I realise what had happened, the same day that I realised quite what he… meant… to me…"

Nina did not push him. "Take your time."

He started from the beginning of the evening. "We had kept up a pretence of a sexual relationship for the sake of irritating my brother, something to entertain me; he went along with it without question, he saw nothing in it. But yesterday, yesterday he asked for me to clear it up with Mycroft. He asked me to specify what we actually are rather than continue the charade. I agreed. I planned to tell him that we were merely friends."

"And something changed that?"

"John got hurt on account of me. Injured his hand. As he stood there, pale and bleeding, I felt a surge of it, a rush, almost an ache – I cared. I cared that he was hurt. I wasn't just concerned, I was… horrified. The guilt was like I've never felt before, it tore at me and made me feel as if the pain he was feeling in his hand was resting now within myself." He laughed again at himself. "How whimsical. How ridiculous. But accurate. Very accurate." Sherlock trailed off, thinking for a moment. "He asked me to take him home, to my home, and I did. I took him home with the promise that I would take care of him. I had never been asked to do anything of the sort for anybody, yet a single request from him and I was completely unable to refuse."

She nodded, pointing the end of her pen at him. "Not for the first time."

"No."

"What happened next?"

The memories flooded him, the warmth and texture of John's skin, the first hazy glance of mottled blue eyes and the confusion swimming on their surface at the realisation that it had been Sherlock's tender and willing touch to his wrist in order to comfort and soothe. "I took care of him. I cleaned and bandaged his hand. I… attempted to comfort him." He didn't want to explain. He hoped that she would not assume it was something more than a brush of a thumb against delicate skin. "Before he awoke he… murmured something. My name. Twice. I didn't realise what he said the first time, but the second time it was clear enough that it froze me, I couldn't move for seconds… perhaps a whole minute. I knelt there at his side, staring at him like he'd never said my name before. But then, he hadn't. Not like that. It was…" He swallowed, seeing it in front of him as if it were tangible. "It was so… warm. Like he was reaching out to me. I've never heard my name spoken like that by anybody and it just broke something within me, it was irreparable, _inconceivable_ … because I longed to hear it again. Longed for it. I have never longed for a single thing in my entire life yet I longed for the man lying in front of me to say my name like it mattered again, again, again. And I realised it. I realised what had happened."

Her eyes were intent. "I think you should say it aloud, William."

He could not. "I can't even say it aloud to myself. I'm not sure I've even thought it. Not what you're asking. Not those words."

"But you do? Feel the words that you can't say?"

Sherlock battled the desire to raise his hand and press his palm to his chest. "I know that I feel. I think that's quite enough without defining it."

Again, Nina didn't press him. "That's fine. Just accepting those feelings is a huge step."

He eyed her steadily. "I've told you too much, you know." He shook his head. "It is a failure on my part."

She shrugged, a 'what are you gonna do' sort of gesture; he'd seen John do it many a time. Ugh. John. Always John. "But at least you've stayed true to what you promised. You opened yourself up. You did it for John."

The words were exactly what he needed to hear and equally everything that he could not accept. "Last night, after things became too intense – and I won't discuss that, I can't, not now – I went to my brother and confessed… well. Everything. I embarrassed myself. Still, he was accepting. He didn't judge me." He hadn't even realised the importance of that before now. He sat quietly for a moment before continuing. "He wasn't surprised."

Nina waited. She knew the right moments to stay silent. He decided that he might actually attend the next session.

"And then I went back, torn between telling John the truth and waiting for him to come to the realisation himself. He and I spoke. He inferred something that affected me and I temporarily lost control of my actions. I made him feel threatened. I made him feel confused. We were… very close. Physically. It was my doing, not his. But he enjoyed it." This he said with certainty. "I _know_ he did."

Confusion flashed across her features. "I'm sorry… what did he enjoy?"

He found himself leaning forward, his mind starting to pulse out images as he recalled the moments before they were interrupted. "Our proximity. I held his wrist in my hand and… pulled him close. Very close. His pupils dilated, his breathing became shallow… his pulse raced." He wanted to keep remembering, he could not stop. "It was either fear or enjoyment, but believe me, believe me when I assure you that I've seen it before. I've seen how he reacts to me before. He was drunk, he was just reacting to physical contact, it had been quite some time since he'd experienced such things, but he reacted the exact same way. He admitted it that night that he had reacted through enjoyment, though expressed no further feelings. This time he didn't have a chance to do either of those things." Sherlock could see her making her own assumptions; no. She was wrong. "Not what you're thinking."

She raised an eyebrow, only slightly surprised by his words. "What was I thinking?"

"That I… kissed him." He shook his head, the very idea of it making his head spin. "We were interrupted by a mutual acquaintance. My housemate."

Nina tilted her head slightly to one side. "Did you want to?"

"Be interrupted?"

"No." Her gaze was steady, a small smile at her lips. "Kiss him."

His lips separated, startled as he actually thought about it, considered the idea of whether that was where he would have taken the situation if Greg hadn't walked in; how had he not wondered before now? He had, after all, said to John that he wasn't finished with him. What had that meant? It was ludicrous that he hadn't even known as he had spoken the words, worse that he wasn't even sure now.

Would he have kissed John?

Ah.

Kissing John. John's breath on his lips. John's lips on his lips. John's lips. John kissing Sherlock back. John's kiss.

_John._

Nina slowly moved back to rest her back against the chair, fiddling with her pen as she observed him before speaking quietly out into the silence as he lost himself in the images that were now overwhelming him. "Let's stop there."

The room came back to him in a cold rush; his body felt odd, almost as if it were not quite attached to the rest of him. "What?"

She nodded slightly. "I think we should stop for today. You've been very forthcoming and have shared a lot with me, which is good, but I only expect you to go so far. I think you've reached your limit for now."

No, that wasn't right. He had reached his limit the moment he'd walked into the room. He had reached his limit the moment he'd even considered coming here. "I see."

"But we can schedule another appointment for next week, if you'd like?"

No, he wouldn't like – that didn't explain, however, his response. "Yes. Preferably Tuesday again."

It had been John who had needed this. It had been John who had been the more willing of the two, if you could consider his obvious reluctance a sign of will. John had been the one who would open up and tell his own intense, friendly counsellor his problems and would find himself able to piece himself back together. Sherlock was supposed to be the one who resisted and came out of it without having said a word. And yet…

Their roles had been reversed. Sherlock had divulged. John had been in the room with his counsellor for less than ten minutes.

It was absurd.

Nina was talking. "…twelve in the afternoon. Does that suit you?"

He stared at her. "What?"

Her lips twitched at the corners. "Your appointment. Next Tuesday, midday." Sherlock forced a curt nod. "All right then, next Tuesday it is! How are you feeling?"

Sherlock stood abruptly, feeling the session coming to a close and wanting to get out instantly – it was different from the desire to leave he had experienced earlier. He felt it was imperative now. He felt that he would be smothered by the words he had spoken if he did not leave the room.

"I'm fine. But I'm late for a lecture."

Nina blinked, hesitating a moment before pushing herself to her feet. "Right, well, you'd better be leaving then…" She walked around the desk and extended her hand, misty grey eyes fixed on his as he reached out and grasped it briefly with his own. "It was nice to meet you, William. I look forward to seeing you next week."

He gave her a curt nod. "Next week."

**-X-**

_**John Watson:** _

_Hope you managed not to kill your counsellor!_

Sherlock stared at the screen in disbelief. John. John had sent him a text. They had not spoken since the evening before, but here it was, a text message, a text message from John, no angry words and no accusations. Just John. John making a joke.

The lecture hall hazed out as his slender thumbs started to type out a message from underneath the desk, his head trying to get past the ridiculous shock so that he could reply with something that at least appeared to make sense:

_Murder isn't really my area. I prefer psychological torture. Naturally I was successful._

He sent it with a hard tap to the screen, his leg starting to bounce beneath the table as he stared intently at his screen without a single thought to the students around him or the lecturer who was still going on about something that he no doubt already knew. Two minutes. Three. Four and a half.

Ah.

_**John Watson:** _

_Oh, well, naturally. Wouldn't expect any less! Are you busy?_

Sherlock felt his irritation at himself rise. Yes. Yes, he was busy. Why was he busy?

_In a lecture. Problem?_

Two minutes.

_**John Watson:** _

_No, just wondering if you were free for lunch._

Well. That was a good sign. Wasn't that a good sign? He was typing before he'd even thought about what to say:

_Dinner?_

This time it was eleven minutes. Eleven whole minutes. Was John hesitating after Sherlock's indulgent display last night? He couldn't blame him.

_**John Watson:** _

_Good idea. Shall we cook at yours? I'll bring something._

Cooking. Domestic. Greg would be out. The two of them. Cooking. Eating. Very domestic.

He shook his head, irritated at the way his head was making things seem. He tapped out a reply perhaps a little harder than he should have:

_Greg won't be there._

Not even two minutes passed.

_**John Watson:** _

_I know._

Sherlock's stomach twisted. He took a whole minute to reply:

_6pm then._

Barely even a minute.

_**John Watson:** _

_I'll be there. You can tell me all about the psychological torturing of your poor counsellor._

Sherlock shut his eyes briefly.

He'd have to lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: Not to worry, everyone, you'll find out the rest of John and Greg's conversation eventually. Patience, my pretties! XD**


	32. Do You Like It?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: To my beautiful, loyal, supportive readers: the next chapter. The longest chapter yet. You deserve a chapter of length and quality - and you will _always_ deserve quality.**
> 
> **Love you all gazillions. Comments, as ever, are held very close to my heart. :]**

**Chapter Thirty-Two**

John did not look like John.

Rather than the usual t-shirt and jeans ensemble that Sherlock had come to recognise upon the mousey-haired pre-med student, he wore what Sherlock could only describe as an ensemble far more suited to someone ten or even twenty years older than he was; he still wore jeans, though these looked oddly new, stiff and perhaps even a little uncomfortable – none of the soft-looking worn out bits or the danger of them falling over his slender hips. The shirt that John wore also looked new, almost painfully white in the light from the hallway and the collar so immoveable that Sherlock was certain that if he were to touch it the material would not shift underneath his probing fingers. Then, of course, there was the jumper. Old. A dark, blueish grey. Definitely soft. Worn often yet Sherlock had never seen it before.

Sherlock had to admit that he rather liked the jumper.

"Hi," John greeted him with a grin, extending out a bottle of red wine and holding two plastic bags aloft as if they were sacred, his eyes meeting Sherlock's very briefly before glancing behind him and into the warmth of the house. "Greg left yet?"

Sherlock realised he had not yet invited him in, stepping aside quickly and taking the bottle of wine between oddly clammy fingers and pulling it to rest against his chest. "He left half an hour ago with Lauren."

John stepped into the house and raised an eyebrow as he made his way straight to the kitchen, calling his words back to his friend as the tell-tale sound of carrier bags plonked onto the kitchen counter made its way back to where Sherlock still stood with the front door open. "Still Lauren? Are they actually…?"

Closing the front door quietly and taking slow, carefully measured steps to meet John in the kitchen, Sherlock forced himself to suppress the creeping sensation of awkward apprehension currently making its way through his stomach and up into his chest. "I think it's a fairly obvious assumption that they've had plenty of sex."

"Not that." Sherlock entered the room in time to see John pulling a pack of beef chunks from one of the bags, head shaking and eyes focused on the items he was unloading. "Are they actually seeing one another? I know they've been shagging but is it an exclusive sort of thing?"

It was difficult to wrap his head around such unimportant topics when he was so unfailingly fixated on this unexpected atmosphere of normality that was so very out of place after the evening before. "I… he doesn't talk to me about these things, I haven't the faintest idea."

John threw the now-empty carrier bags across to the other side of the kitchen and pulled a knife from the block next to the cooker. "Well, has he had any other girls here since they met at the party?"

Sherlock stared as John flipped the switch on the oven and turned it on. "No."

"Wow. Greg must like her a lot."

The way that John made his way around the kitchen as if it were his own was almost hypnotic. "Mm."

A silence fell over them as the smaller of the two set to work on preparing dinner, darting between one side of the small space to an array of vegetables and back over to the beef; Sherlock watched intently as John put a frying pan and oil onto heat, his small hands throwing in the deep red chunks of beef, creating a comforting sizzling noise the moment the meat hit the hot metal; the older man started to hum as he poked and prodded the beef with a wooden spatula, an unfamiliar tune which threaded its way through the kitchen and made the whole experience of standing in the kitchen whilst John cooked for him infinitely comforting.

The smell of cooking beef was pleasant. "What are you making?"

John half-smiled, flitting over to the vegetables to chop up a few more leeks. "Beef bourguignon."

Sherlock took a few steps towards the counter separating the two of them, placing the bottle of wine he still held onto the surface as he felt a smirk twitch at the edge of his lips. "No need to decorate it with French, John. You're making beef stew."

"It's beef bourguignon," John insisted, walking over to the counter and grabbing the bottle of wine; he was still smiling. It was warm. It felt warm to look at it. "Look, I'm putting red wine in it."

"Traditionally a bourguignon is cooked over a long period of time. Unless of course you have other plans for us whilst we wait for it to cook over the next three hours."

John paused for a moment in unscrewing the lid of the wine, the bottle in his hand hovering unopened over the sizzling pan. He did not look at Sherlock. "What sort of plans would I have?"

A knot of tension wormed its way into the dark-haired genius's stomach; there was something to it… there was nothing to it. Just like that, the night before lingered between them like barrier. "I don't know. I wasn't implying anything, I…" He had to salvage this, he could hear the confusion in his own tone and it needed to be altered imminently. "So essentially you're cooking a glorified beef stew."

John still did not look at him as his fingers slowly pried the lid from the top of the dark bottle. He left it a few moments before responding, smile gone but tone still casual. "Call it what you want, it's still going to taste better than anything you've ever eaten."

He tried to match the offhand timbre, leaning against the counter and resting his weight onto his forearms and elbows. "I've been to Burgundy. I've tasted the real thing."

"Not the way I make it."

Sherlock's eyed followed the steady gush of deep red wine into the pan. "Can I help?"

John finally looked up, his face flushed pink from the heat rising from the simmering meat. "No, it's all right. It's a small kitchen. I know what I'm doing."

Sherlock's eyes roved slowly over the space that John currently inhabited; it wasn't that small. Not small enough to get away with making excuses about its size. He met John's gaze and fought the urge to point this out. "I see."

John seemed to be having an internal struggle of his own. His lips pursed and he managed to keep his eyes on Sherlock for a few moments before he gave up and turned back to the pan, stirring the beef amidst the wine and whatever else he'd added and seemingly gathering his thoughts together before throwing out: "Why don't you pour the vino?"

The wine was next to the cooker and John. Sherlock huffed out a small breath of air and nodded, directing his body first towards the cupboard which held a myriad of mismatched glasses. "Large or small?"

"Small - oh, bugger it, large. I don't have any seminars 'til midday tomorrow, I can afford to go a little wild."

Sherlock's eyebrow raised of its own accord as he pulled two glasses from the top shelf. "Wild? That's a bit of an exaggeration for just one glass of wine."

He did not miss the way that John's smile begrudgingly curled at the corners of his lips. "You haven't seen me after one yet."

Sherlock's mind went momentarily blank: the idea of John being  _wild_  after one glass of wine and the actuality of it happening later that evening should have inspired some sort of montage of possibility in his head, yet it was almost as if he had panicked at the mere potential and his brain had blanketed him in self-defence... for which he was grateful. God only knew what sort of mumbling idiot he'd be reduced to if he allowed his imagination to get the better of him, and it was certainly not a risk he was currently willing to take.

A voice cut through the haze. "Sherlock?"

His eyes swivelled and met John's. His stomach jolted. "Yes?"

With a questioning smile and a gentle shrug, John picked up the bottle of wine and held it out to his friend. "The wine?"

"Of course," Sherlock muttered, taking it from John with a tug and turning his back to the shorter man as he placed the two glasses down with a gentle clatter to the counter, taking in a few deep breaths as he twisted off the cap. "A large glass of wine." He poured the deep ruby liquid into each glass with surprisingly steady hands, levelling them out until each glass held an equal amount – it must be equal, equality was imperative for whatever reason his over-clocked mind had decided upon – and finally picking one up and turning back around. John was already waiting, fingers outstretched.

Their fingers brushed as he took it. Sherlock just about managed to stop himself from the sharp intake of breath that was irritatingly perched at the edge of his throat, letting go of the glass instantly and grabbing his own with too firm a grasp and spilling it on his shirt in the process. The liquid sloshed onto the material loudly, bright against the pale blue, reminiscent almost of the same stain upon John's shirt just the night before... though this was only wine. Sherlock was not hurt as John had been hurt. It was not a disaster. He could deal with this easily. He sighed and placed the glass down, starting to unbutton the shirt with deft fingers without even thinking, he had reached the last button before he realised, his eyes flying to meet John's – whose own gaze was fixed intently on Sherlock's graceful, dexterous fingers – and freezing there as his fingers stilled.

John's stare flickered to meet his. Something darted across his expression, so quickly that Sherlock almost couldn't identify it – realisation, understanding, something odd and seemingly out of place – and disappeared as rapidly as it had come. Sherlock took a step back.

"I should -"

"Yes," John said with a quick nod, turning back to the stove and poking at the beef which was surely ready to be put in the oven with the vegetables by now, "yeah, sure. I'll be here."

"Naturally," Sherlock murmured, turning and bolting from the room and taking two steps at a time to get to his bedroom as he tore the shirt from his body and threw it in the corner, not bothering to close the door. His cheeks were burning. He was blushing.  _He was blushing._  This was utterly absurd, he was acting like a teenage girl who had been caught taking off her bra – ugh, that was an image he didn't need to see – and now John was probably in the kitchen wondering a) why he had started undressing in the middle of the kitchen rather than waiting to get to his room and b) why he had ran from the room as if on fire. What a fool. What an idiotic, hormone-ridden  _fool_.

Himself, that was. John was fine. John was twenty-three. He was beyond hormones. Apparently.

He threw open the door to his wardrobe and flicked through the shirts with a frown etched upon his brow – no, not that one, it was too flimsy; and that one, why did he even still  _have_  it? - before muttering a curse and looking instead on the shelf above the shirts, rummaging through it until he found a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved black top, deciding that at least if he were to have another ridiculous display of ungainly limbs he would at least spill whatever he was drinking or eating onto items of clothing he didn't really give two damns about.

As he descended the stairs once more he found himself assaulted by the scent of cooking and the increased warmth of an attended kitchen the closer he got to the doorway; upon entering he found himself facing an empty room, all remnants of the food John had been preparing gone and the countertops glittering with recently dispersed water droplets where the man had obviously cleaned up after himself – the very image of it made his stomach coil and drop, though instead of finding himself feeling cold and distant he instead felt the trappings of warmth and comfort start to thread their way into his veins. He breathed in the smell of the well-seasoned beef stew – he refused to call it a bourguignon – and felt his muscles begin to relax at the frustrating simple contentment in what was to come in the near future: a home-cooked meal with his... John. And conversation. About what, he didn't know, but conversation nonetheless. John listening to him. Offering his opinions. Laughing at his ignorance. Telling him about his day. Domesticity.

When had domesticity become something to strive for?

Turning and leaving the room to make his way down the hallway, he let himself enjoy his subtle contentment for a few moments longer before quietly entering the dimly lit living room, eyes searching for John; he was not on the sofa sipping wine, as Sherlock had expected, rather he was in the dining room holding something, examining it with wide eyes and running his fingers over it as if it were something quite alien but quite beautiful -

His violin. John was caressing his violin.

He could not tear his eyes away from the sight of it: his muse and his instrument. The smoky blue eyes that he had wanted to fix onto his as he had walked in were now even better placed in their intent appraisal over the deeply toned wood, skating over the strings along with delicate fingertips and emitting a faint sound that skittered across the space between them and made Sherlock feel quite crooked, the very idea that John would give a touch of such care and elegance to an instrument that Sherlock himself paid the greatest attention to on a daily basis – always when John was not there. Always when John would not hear. It had not come up in conversation and Sherlock could not for the life of him think of why he had not told his best friend yet that he played the violin and that, to him, it was one of the only vices he had which did not threaten or damage him in some way.

It was  _important_. And John was staring at it in awe.

Sherlock's voice was a distant rumble even to his own ears. "Do you like it?"

John almost dropped the instrument in shock at the apparent presence of someone else in the room, his fingers closing tightly over the neck quickly to ensure it did not fall to the ground; Sherlock smirked and took a few steps forward as John began to babble. "I – I hope you don't mind, I was just in here and I saw it on the sideboard and I didn't know if..." He stopped, looking Sherlock over for a moment, a tiny shake of his head before he raised his eyes back up. "You look different."

"So do you," Sherlock challenged, raising an eyebrow, "but I was polite enough not to mention it. Would you prefer it if I wore something else? Something more... familiar?"

John's head twitched slightly, his thumb seeming to subconsciously trace the contours of the strings as he processed the question. "No, it's... I didn't mean it was a bad thing. I just don't see you in jeans that often. Or anything remotely casual. It's... different. Not bad. You don't need to change."

Sherlock felt the odd urge to press him. "You prefer this?"

"No," John repeated with a shake of his head, a small smile tilting the edges of his lips up, amusement obvious. "No, I'm not saying that either. Either way is fine. Formal or casual."

"You think I dress formally?"

"I -" John cut himself off, looking away for a tiny moment before looking back – his smile at widened, his eyes glittering in the subtle light. "I don't know, Sherlock. You don't dress like someone of your age."

Sherlock batted this comment away with his hand. "I've already told you, age is meaningless. So. Do you like it?"

John's brow creased. "I already said, I don't mind either w-"

"The violin."

"Oh." John's eyes cast themselves down to gaze at the instrument again, his eyes taking on that same burning interest as before. Sherlock rather enjoyed it. "Yes. Is it yours?"

Sherlock took a few more steps towards him, suddenly aware that the last time they were in this space together their proximity had been under far more confusing circumstances. He approached with caution, extending a large pale hand out towards him. "I think you would be right in observing that in the very least it's not Greg's."

John held out the instrument with his own hand, though Sherlock noted a strange sort of reluctance. "He might have hidden talents."

Sherlock's fingers closed over the base of the violin, a warmth in his fingertips simply from touching it. "Lauren would be the one to ask."

John laughed and let go, allowing Sherlock to take it into his own hands. "I think I'll pass. But still, speaking of hidden talents..." His eyes found Sherlock's again, openly curious. "You never mentioned you played the violin."

Sherlock shrugged, both hands coming around to cup the beloved object between his fingers and bringing it closer to himself, eyes roving along every little detail, every minute scratch. "It never really came up."

He could feel John's eyes observing him closely. "Would you show me?"

Icy eyes met misty ones. "You want me to play for you?"

John offered his own shrug, nonchalant, as if it didn't really matter. "We have an hour and a half to kill before dinner's ready."

The nonchalance deflated Sherlock somewhat. He felt himself start to detach from the idea. "Perhaps another time."

John's mouth opened slightly. "But... I mean, you don't have to, but I thought -"

"I would prefer to play for an audience who is actually desirous to hear it rather than one who is asking out of good manners."

The look of confusion that spread over John's face was almost laughable. "What do you mean? I  _am_  desirous."

Suddenly the word felt rather evocative. Sherlock's fingers pressed hard into the wood as he fought his own desire to step further towards his best friend. "Are you?"

John stared at him, the cogs of his own mind almost visibly whirring under the scrutiny of Sherlock's intense gaze; he was clearly coming to his own realisation of the language Sherlock had used. He took a moment before seemingly making a decision. "I wouldn't have said it if I didn't mean it." The two of them gazed at one another for what seemed like aeons to Sherlock, though most likely the meaning was lost to John. "Go on. Show me."

Sherlock waited, allowing the man a moment to change his mind; he nodded curtly, reaching out his hand to beckon John to pass him his bow. As he watched John turn and move his hands to grab not only the bow but the glass of wine that sat beside the leather case on top of the sideboard, Sherlock saw with his keen, eternally observant gaze the nearly empty glass and the tremor in John's hand as he reached for it: ah. John had already almost polished off his glass.

Sherlock had been gone only mere minutes, and in that space of time John had gulped down nearly an entire glass of wine.

He let the arm holding the violin drop to his side. "John."

John paused in his lifting the glass to his lips. "Mm?"

"Why are you trying to get drunk?"

**\- X -**

**THE PREVIOUS EVENING**

"John. He's falling in love with you, mate."

John could only stare at Greg, at the open palms offered to him with this piece of scattered information upon them, a piece of information that he was now apparently supposed to accept and comprehend. The words couldn't quite click into place. The meaning was lost.

He could only stare. Perhaps offer one word.

"What?"

Greg closed his fingers to his palms slowly, his eyes becoming terribly sympathetic. "Come on, don't make me say it again."

"No, no, I actually think you may need to," John argued hazily, shaking his head slowly, "I think you may need to just roll that past me one more time..."

"Sherlock. He... Mycroft and me, we figured out that -"

"Oh," John said loudly, rolling his eyes and flailing his hands up into the air, "OH, well, you and Mycroft figured something out, that must mean it  _has_  to be true – the detective and the genius!"

"Calm down," Greg said, rolling his own eyes, "and shut up if you want me to actually bother explaining. Mycroft and me had already figured out that you were different and that Sherlock was starting to change because of you. In a good way," he seemed to feel the need to add, "in the sort of way where Sherlock was actually starting to communicate with the two of us about... well, anything. Usually he kind of ignores our existence unless forced to acknowledge us, but since you started becoming a bigger part of the picture he started to talk to us. Started to respond to questions, giving minor details. Not about you, just about stuff in general. That in itself was pretty astounding."

John stared at him, dumbfounded. "Yeah. None of this is really inspiring me with much confidence."

"Shut up," Greg ordered again. "And from there we kind of just started noticing things. He would bring you up in conversation. And then when whenever I mentioned you he'd kind of leap on it, start talking about something or other that you'd said. Nothing major, not like a love-sick puppy or anything but just mentioning it in that monotonous way he has when he's talking about science or parties being shit or whatever. It wasn't the content or the tone that was weird, it was just the fact that he actually seemed to  _want_  to talk about you. And then Mycroft told me he knew that you and he weren't actually having sex, but that it was pointless to tell Sherlock that as he'd probably just come up with bigger and more detailed stories, and trust me,  _neither one of us_  wants to hear that."

John nodded, exhausted, certain that he did not want to hear the rest of this.

"After that we kind of figured out that this was going to escalate and become something else."

"Right. And by something else..."

"Like I said before," Greg said, shrugging, looking vaguely helpless. "He's... falling for you. In a big way."

John could feel the disbelief twisting his face awkwardly. "No. No, he isn't."

"Yeah."

"No," he said, more insistent. "I'm his best friend. He doesn't want to... no." He couldn't help but laugh – the idea was absurd. "Greg, I'm sorry, but you and his fucking brother have this  _completely_  wrong."

"I already told you, mate, Mycroft text me earlier. He told me."

John sighed, suddenly irritated. "Told you  _what_?"

Greg stared at him, seeming a little irritated himself. "I just told you! That he's falling in love with you! That Sherlock, our Sherlock – well, no,  _your_  Sherlock – is falling in love with you and there's absolutely fuck all that either me or Mycroft can do to stop it. End of, that's the situation. Now it's your situation to deal with."

It was a harsh end, but perhaps the harshness was necessary; John could feel his head starting to spin, flashing over images of Sherlock holding him so close, of Sherlock's hand on his leg under the table, of Sherlock constant, intense gaze, of Sherlock... so much Sherlock, his life had revolved around Sherlock and of course that could mean that Sherlock's life had revolved around  _him_  but he had never thought of it being in a different way, a defining way,  _this_  way -

"No -"

"Stop saying no when what you really mean is 'oh, fuck'. Accept it so that you can start figuring out what to do from here."

John felt his hands come up to frame his own face, clutching at it; his eyes widened in a sort of desperation, focused in a frozen depiction of bewildered unknowing upon Greg's face. "How?" It was almost a moan. "How am I supposed to know what to do?"

More rolled eyes – damn it, why was Greg so fucking casual about this? WHY?! "I dunno, it's not like I've really had time to think about it! The first question, really, is do you, y'know, think that maybe you might -"

"Oh christ, no, don't go there," John mumbled, shaking his head and burying his face completely in his hands, "I can't even think about that right now. Fucking hell. Jesus Christ. Shitting  _wank -_ "

"Yeah, all right, it's not the end of the world," Greg said with a tiny grin, leaning forward and slapping his hand onto John's leg. "I mean, I enjoy the swearing pyrotechnics any day but you need to just chill out a bit and... well. Calm down."

"I'm trying," John said, his voice strained but at least attempting to keep his volume down. "Sorry. Sorry, it's just a lot to absorb. And it's been a long day."

"I know."

"Sorry," John repeated, shaking his head but letting his hands fall from his face; he was quickly realising how ridiculous his panic had been. "Sorry, that's not me, I wasn't... I'm fine. I didn't mean to overreact. I just... christ. Are you sure?"

Greg nodded, eyes sympathetic again. "Well, yeah. That's why Sherlock went to see Mycroft."

John was paler than ever, could feel that the blood had drained completely from his face, but at least he was regaining some of his natural calm. "Sherlock went to see Mycroft specifically to tell him that he... that he feels..."

"Yeah."

That was something he couldn't quite understand. Another something, at least. "Why Mycroft? Why on  _earth_  would he tell Mycroft, of all people?"

"Think about it. Who else could possibly understand how Sherlock's mind works?"

A good point. "Mm. All right. Well, no, not all right. He could have... I don't know... he could've talked to  _me_?"

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Are you asking that as a question?"

John met Greg's gaze. The tension was starting to dissipate from his body just as soon as he realised this point. "He  _could_  have talked to me."

"When you're the one he's having these feelings for? Don't think so. You know him better than that. He must be going fucking mad with all these thoughts shooting around his head, you know how much he thinks and how fast his mind works. It must be crazy in there right now."

There was truth in that. For the first time since Greg had spoken of this insanity John was finally starting to realise that he hadn't considered Sherlock's actual feelings in any of this, just what  _he_  felt in regards to them. "Jesus. He's a mess. It kind of explains..."  _Everything?_  The proximity, the recent explosions of constant intensity, the confusing, oddly crafted sentences with all of their double-meanings and the proximity, again, that had seemed so heated with no real obvious reason - "ah, Greg, this is a mess. This is a mess. Sherlock is a mess."

"And now you're a part of that mess."

"Thanks for the reminder."

Greg shrugged, helpless again. "Sorry. Just saying it like it is."

The two of them sat in silence for a few moments, John's mind suddenly far more alert than it had been all evening and coursing its way over a mountain of thoughts and darting over rivers of doubt. It made sense and was  _non_ sense. And now he was the one who had to decide what to do with it. Unless...

"Did Mycroft say anything about what Sherlock plans to do about... it?"

"From what he said it sounds as if Sherlock isn't planning on doing anything. I mean, look at the way he handled it tonight. That's not the way you'd go about confessing your lo-"

"Yes, all right," John interrupted, putting his hand out to quieten the man. "All right. Fine. So let's assume that he isn't planning on telling me anything. Where does that leave me?"

Greg flumped back into the armchair. "Buggered if I know."

John laughed dryly. "Likewise. So it's up to me now to decide what happens."

A flicker of amused interest made its way onto Greg's face. "So something might happen?"

"That's not what I meant."

"Still..."

"No," John denied, his back hunching even more as he leaned forward, "I can't think about that right now. I need to focus on Sherlock. I can see that now -" He extended his hand out, as if he could literally see it, " - I need to figure out damage control. He's not exactly going to be  _normal_  with me after tonight, is he?"

"Normal?"

"You know what I mean. I need to figure out a way of making him know that I don't mind, that it doesn't bother me."

The eyes that were focused on him held none of the intensity he was used to in such an intent gaze. "It doesn't bother you, then?"

John found himself surprised at the question. "No. No! Of course it doesn't, it doesn't make a damned bit of difference to me."

"It does a  _bit."_

"Well, fine, yeah, but not in a bad way. Not in a friendship-destroying way. It is what it is, I can't change it, obviously... though why he'd even have those feelings is beyond me, I'm not going to lie, it baffles me."

"What makes you say that? You're a great guy!"

"Cheers," John said, sounding sarcastic but actually being somewhat genuine in the sentiment, "but seriously, someone like Sherlock... you'd think he'd go for someone intelligent, someone with a mind more like his. Someone like me, someone ordinary with no particular talent for anything and who is currently near the bottom of his classes – someone with chronic depression – you'd think that would be the kind of person he'd avoid like hell, don't you reckon?"

Greg grunted. "I dunno. You're good at handling him. That takes  _some_  talent."

John grunted back. "Suppose."

"And you  _are_  intelligent. It's not as if people like him grow out of the ground or on trees, he's pretty fucking unique. For someone he would consider 'ordinary', you're intelligent."

"It'd make more sense if he grew out of the ground," John said with a small smile, a tiny bubble of warmth settling in his stomach. Fondness. "All right, but like you said, he's unique. What could he possibly see in me that he hasn't found in someone else?"

Greg stared at him from across the space between them. "Clearly there's something, mate. Otherwise we wouldn't even be having this conversation. And you should know that you sound like a girl right now."

John's brow creased into a frown. "What? What do you mean I sound like a girl?"

Greg's voice rose in pitch. " _Ooooh, what does he see in me? I'm just a normal girl with a normal life and there's nothing special about me at all, boohoo..._ "

"Fuck off." John threw a cushion at him, unable to stop himself from grinning, though it was most definitely an unwilling grin. "But fine, I'll shut up about it. I have to." He sighed, brought back to reality. "Blimey. I've got to figure this out."

"Maybe you don't."

"Well, no, I kind of  _do -_ "

"No, but what if you just act like normal? I mean, you  _definitely_  don't have to tell him you know what's going on – actually, no, that's a demand, not a suggestion," Greg warned, leaning forward again, "you can't tell him what I've told you."

John blinked. "Why not?"

"Are you kidding? Firstly, it would put both me and Mycroft in the shitter. Secondly, how do you think he'd possibly deal with the 'I know you love me but let's just be friends' conversation? Not well, John, is that answer to that. Not fucking well."

John bit his lip for a moment. "Shit. Yeah. He'd never talk to me again."

A look of relief passed over Greg's face. "So we're agreed, you won't tell him?"

"All right. I won't tell him."

"Great. Thanks. So you just act normal and bam, he continues having all these unrequited feelings and eventually gets over it. You're sorted."

 _Unrequited feelings_. Something about that didn't sit quite right with John. "It's not like..." He broke off. Greg eyed him closely.

"Not like what?"

John looked away. "Nothing."

"Fuck off and tell me. What, I haven't been honest with you tonight? Your turn, mate, don't be a dick."

John narrowed his eyes at the floor. "Fine. Obviously I care about him, Greg, that much is obvious. He's my best mate."

"And you don't feel for any of your other friends the way you do about him, right?"

John's eyes narrowed further still. "No, but that doesn't  _mean_  anything."

"Course it does. I'm not saying you have the same feelings that  _he_  does, but clearly there's something there that you don't have with anyone else right now."

"So?"

"So essentially you do have feelings for him. Which is why you didn't like the whole 'unrequited' thing. 'Cos he cares for you too, just in a different way. But that doesn't make your version of caring any less relevant."

John finally looked up at Greg. "Where the hell are you getting these sentences from? When did you get to be so observant and... and  _thoughtful_?"

Greg shrugged for the umpteenth time that evening. "Comes with living with one Holmes, being in cahoots with another and generally spending a lot of time with girls."

The sigh that fell from John's throat was one of frustrated acceptance. "Then that's that. You get it. I don't have  _those_  feelings but I do have... feelings."

Greg was not letting it go completely. "He probably started out with your version too, y'know."

"I really don't want to go there, Greg. Not tonight. Right now all that matters is making sure Sherlock knows I'm his friend first and foremost and that I'm not going to just go all AWOL on him just because he... did what he did tonight. Not that I would have done anyway, but now that I know what's going on in his head I should make the effort to appear as normal as I possibly can."

"You know how he loves how normal you are."

"I  _will_  hit you."

Greg's grin was just as wide, but was starting to wear a little thin. They were both clearly coming to the end of the conversation, if only because sleep was blatantly beckoning. "No you won't. You're too lazy to get up off your arse and do it."

"True."

"So you're going with the 'being normal' idea?"

John nodded. Yes. He'd made his decision. "I'll text him tomorrow. Arrange dinner or something. Spend some time repairing the damage I probably did being a complete arse tonight. Could you possibly bugger off somewhere so we can have the house to ourselves?"

"Oooh, romantic! Sure, mate, no problem." He was laughing, but his support was genuine. "I'll find somewhere to go. Want me to stay out the whole night?"

There were no implications behind it, but still the idea sent an odd wave of butterflies and tension through John's stomach. "I don't know. I don't know what's going to happen. Can I text you?"

The taller boy nodded, groaning as he started to pitch forward and out of the chair. "No worries. I'm gonna turn in now anyway, got lectures tomorrow. Are you gonna stick around?"

"Don't think Sherlock would really want to see me in the morning. No, I'll head out too."

Greg grinned, but this time it was smaller, kinder. He extended his hand out to John. "Good luck, all right? And, y'know... I'm your mate too. If you need to chat, text me. Or call me. Whatever."

John reached out and took Greg's hand firmly in his, shaking it. "I'll keep it in mind, Greg. Cheers for that. And for... well. Y'know."

"Yeah. Night then, John."

"Night."

**\- X -**

Sherlock was staring at him, eyes utterly focused.

"Why are you trying to get drunk?"

John could feel the heat of the wine, the room and the question rising to his cheeks. He found himself unsure of his response, feeling the buzzing of the wine in his head and his head mocking him for not refilling his glass so as not to raise the suspicious of the most observant man he'd ever met in his life.

Sherlock's chin was tilting upwards: defensive, not arrogant. "Ah. Don't worry, I can work it out for myself. I suppose I was the foolish one for assuming that perhaps we could get through the evening without last night becoming an issue. And so."

John watched as Sherlock walked quietly towards him, feeling the heat in his cheeks become almost unbearable as the taller man got closer and closer until he was less than quarter of a metre away from him.

Sherlock gently placed the violin into its case and forced his unsettlingly intense gaze to rest once more upon John's own wavering eyeline.

"Shall we sit down?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: LISTEN UP, LOVELIES! I want you all to go and please, please, PLEASE go and check out this artwork done of the drinking game scene by a very wonderful and talented friend of mine, a girl of such extraordinary talent she constantly leaves me in a state of suspended awe:**
> 
> **http://creekepernickety.deviantart.com/art/to-study-oneself-drinking-game-450542286**
> 
> **Please leave love for her; she deserves every moment of your precious time.**


	33. Extraordinary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: LET'S DO THIS. COMMENT AND I WILL LOVE YOU FOREVERMORE.**

**Chapter Thirty-Three**

John stared at him and slowly started to shake his head. Oh, christ. "No, Sherlock -"

"I quite understand," Sherlock interrupted and, yes, oddly enough there _did_ seem to be a sort of twist to his features that attempted to portray some form of empathy. It was incredibly odd and clearly a struggle for him. "I behaved… inappropriately… and I owe you an explanation for that. Would you indulge me by sitting down on the sofa so that we can have this conversation without lingering beside Mrs. Hudson's fine china?"

John's eyes flickered to the china on the sideboard with a hazy glance; Sherlock was going to explain? No, no he wouldn't. He wouldn't explain what was really going on. John wasn't idiotic enough to think that Sherlock had changed his mind overnight. He nodded, still staring at the china, wanting to be compliant and not make this anymore awkward than it had to be.

"All right."

Walking past Sherlock into the living room, settling himself down on the soft leather sofa and leaning back in the hopes that he could at least appear to be completely nonchalant – as he had been trying to appear all evening – John watched as Sherlock passed him and settled, naturally, into his armchair; the taller man crossed his legs elegantly and allowed himself a few moments of silence before he began to speak.

"John, last night… last night was unforgivable. Not only did I lead you into a situation where you could get hurt without a single thought to your personal safety, I took advantage of your vulnerability and let my own…" he grimaced, "… _emotions_ get the better of me. I'm sorry for that."

John nodded slowly, looking first at the coffee table and then back at Sherlock. "It's fine. It was a tough night for us both."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I wasn't the one to get injured."

_Damn. Don't let on that you know!_ "No, I know, I mean…" What did he mean? "It was a tough day for you. A long day. Lectures." _John Watson, that was pathetic._ "You were probably tired and on top of the drama I created by cutting my stupid hand it was… yeah. Tough."

Sherlock gazed at him with all the intensity of… himself. Yes. He had set new standards of intensity. He was now the bar that nobody else could ever hope to reach. "I see."

"Look, we don't have to go over this. I know you didn't mean to get all…" John waved his hands in front of his own face. "Y'know. Intense. I can imagine that caregiving isn't exactly your natural calling and neither of us really knew what to do with the situation. It all escalated pretty quickly."

The genius allowed him a nod. "It did. But I am at fault for that and I would prefer if you rescinded all blame and laid it wholly on me. The truth, John, is that I was…"

He drifted off and stopped; his gaze left John's and focused on the coffee table of avoidance. John joined him in this. He didn't know what Sherlock had been about to say and he wasn't altogether sure whether he should press him to continue or not. He wasn't sure if he _wanted_ to.

But he had a duty to his best friend to be understanding. So he had to try. "Sherlock -"

"The truth is that I was deeply concerned for you, John." The words were stiff, stilted, yet they came out in a rush as if he had been trying to withhold them and could do so no longer. "You are right in saying that it was a difficult situation and that I am not well-versed in taking care of people, yet it was a necessary task and one I had accepted… and I accepted because it was imperative to me that I deal with the problem that I had created."

It was all a mess of words and intentions, yet the final statement didn't quite sit right with John. "So… you looked after me due to a sense of responsibility for what happened?"

Sherlock would still not look at him. "Yes."

"Sorry, Sherlock, but I'm going to have to call you on your bullshit."

Ah, there it was – Sherlock was now looking at him once more with a frown and narrowed eyes; John could see it out of the corner of his eye. "Pardon?"

"I'm not saying you didn't do it at least partially out of responsibility, but…" John hesitated, knowing he was possibly about to open a can of worms: because he remembered the look on Sherlock's face whilst he was tending to John's wound. He remembered the gentle ministrations, the softly spoken request to keep still, the possessive, protective gaze… the thumb caressing his wrist. Even if he couldn't force himself to bring up what Sherlock _truly_ felt – and he had to admit that there were still a few threads of doubt within him despite Greg's reams of confirmation the night before – he couldn't let his friend off the hook completely. There had to be _some_ level of acceptance tonight, even if it wasn't the whole story. "You said it yourself that you were deeply concerned."

Sherlock's body visibly tensed in the periphery of John's vision. "I did say that."

"So there was more to it than just responsibility. You… cared about what happened to me."

John looked up and forced himself to look Sherlock in the eye; Sherlock was staring at him with a look that was so mixed John was hard-pressed to identify quite what he was seeing – at the forefront however, quite clearly, was apprehension. Pure apprehension. He could almost hear Sherlock's thought process:

_What has my brother told him?_

_What does he know?_

_What is he actually saying?_

It was enough to make John almost pity him, yet Sherlock didn't deserve pity. Pity was a wasted emotion. Like sympathy. Sympathy was useless too. What Sherlock deserved was some understanding.

"I don't understand what you're saying." The words were simple, strong; the look in Sherlock's eyes was not. "What are you implying?"

"Sherlock…" John sighed, leaning forward and resting his weight on his forearms and elbows. "Sherlock, you care about me. It's all right to admit that."

Sherlock stared at him as if he were speaking a foreign language. John pushed himself to continue.

"I know that as blokes we're not really supposed to go all mushy and gushy and tell each other our feelings, and more to the point I _know_ how you feel about… well, feelings in general, I know it makes you all huffy and snorty so don't bother giving me that look that tells me you're above all of that. Because it's plain as day right now, to me at least, that we need to clear the air a bit – we've both been going through things recently and now we're both going to counselling and god knows even the _thought_ of that is stressful enough…" He sighed again, wondering where the heck he was going with this. "So, y'know, there it is."

Sherlock blinked a few times, seemingly lost. "Where's what?"

"You're going to make me say it. Right. Well." He took a deep breath. "Sherlock, I… care… about you. Too. I care about you too."

The level of sheer intensity on Sherlock's face would have been laughable if it hadn't been such a delicate situation; he was staring at John as if he couldn't quite understand what he was hearing, his body frozen in fear or shock or suspicion, impossible to tell but either way he could not seem to process the information he had just been given. John didn't know whether to say something or leave him to digest or kick him a bit; apparently he didn't know much of anything today. This wasn't exactly a run of the mill situation for him.

He waited patiently.

Sherlock's voice was almost hoarse. "So… you mean to say…"

"You're the best friend I've ever had," John said quietly, sincerely, "and I genuinely feel for you in a way that I've never really felt about anyone who wasn't… y'know. A girlfriend."

He saw the confusion cross Sherlock's face, along with the unmistakeable edge of fear – which made no sense. What was he fearful of? He opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock didn't give him a chance. "You feel for… the feelings you have are…"

Again, John waited patiently, if not a little awkwardly; Sherlock's eyes were once again flicking between the table and his face. His voice was still sounding a little odd, a little hoarse as if he had not spoken for days.

"What I mean to say is… your feelings are… that of a…" He practically choked it out. "…romantic partner?"

John felt his stomach knot instantly, his mind suddenly racing and the realisation of his mixed messages suddenly cold in his chest – oh shit, oh damn, he had to fix this _right now_ –

"John, I -"

"Sherlock, wait, no, you've got it wrong," John quickly intercepted, cursing his wine-fuzzed head for giving him the wrong words to say - no, not the wrong words, just the wrong meaning behind them… fuckity fuck, this was not going as he'd planned! "I don't mean it like that, I don't have _those_ sorts of feelings, not like that!" He was laughing awkwardly and it sounded terrible and he knew even as he couldn't stop the laughter that Sherlock would feel as if John were laughing at the very idea of there being anything romantic between them, which of _course_ would undermine his own feelings for John – "Damn it, Sherlock, I didn't mean for you to… no. No." He forced his nerves to calm, his laughter to cease; he could see the frozen blank stare of the man opposite him and he knew that behind it was now a myriad of negativity that he could not control nor change. "I mean that my feelings, they're… different, they're more than I've had for Mike or Molly or Greg or Sally or pretty much anyone I've ever been friends with -"

"You had sex with Sally," Sherlock said, his voice sounding weirdly stretched as if it didn't quite fit in his throat anymore, "she isn't your friend."

"Well, yes. Yes, that's true. But that's not my point, my point is…" He stared at Sherlock, feeling completely useless. "My point is that I care about you more than I ever cared about any of them, and that is important. It's important to me that you know that and that you know that no matter what you do, or say, or feel, I am going to be here. I am going to be your friend, regardless of anything. At all. Anything at all."

Sherlock said nothing. Not a word. John's stomach might as well have been one, giant knot. He had to keep talking, had to smooth this over.

"So you see that last night doesn't change anything, okay? You can be intense and get angry at me for things and misunderstand and be a sociopath and _whatever you want_. I'm here for the long haul. You're like nobody else I've ever met before -"

"Clearly that is not always a good thing."

John and Sherlock looked at each other across the distance and, for the life of him, John did not know what to say.

_How about a denial?_

"That's not true," he argued lamely, thanking his inner voice for saying the right thing for once. "You know how I feel about the person you are, you know that I don't even understand why you -"

"You would rather I were ordinary. Like everybody else. Like the list of people you just named." Sherlock no longer sounded odd; he sounded very much in control of himself. Not the way that he had sounded the previous night when he had accused John of wanting the very same thing he was once again accusing him of. This time it didn't even sound like an accusation, simply a statement of fact. "You would rather I were someone who would have treated your wound yesterday, offered a soothing word and left you to get a good night's sleep. Someone who wouldn't lead you into dangerous situations with minions of London's underbelly. Someone who wouldn't have made this situation so absurdly awkward that you've had to explain the nature of your sentiment towards me more than once in one evening."

John stayed quiet for a moment, absorbing what Sherlock had said and looking his friend over as he attempted to observe what had changed so suddenly between the hoarse, frozen man of just minutes before and the calm, clearly spoken, far more familiar version opposite him now… but he couldn't place it. He couldn't find it, couldn't place the trigger. Sherlock's long, pale face was perfectly set in its usual expression - one of mild indifference - and his eyes, usually the only part of the man to ever give him away, were utterly nondescript. There was nothing to read. Nothing to go on. He had no idea.

Sherlock, however, was reading him perfectly. "Are you quite finished trying to observe me?"

John rolled his eyes. "Yes."

"Well. I think that's all we needed to say, then, don't you?"

"What? No!" John sat up straight, folding his arms over his chest. "Sherlock, you really need to get it out of your head that I want you to be something you aren't. There isn't even the smallest part of me that wants you to change, not a single particle in this very short, dull person sitting opposite you that wants you to change a thing. You are… extraordinary. And I don't know a single person on this earth who would disagree with me on that."

A look of irritation flashed across Sherlock's mask of calm. "That's a little hypocritical."

"What?"

"All this nonsense about being dull and whatever you were planning on saying before I interrupted you earlier – about not even understanding why I even want to be your friend. I know you well enough to know you don't suffer from any particular brand of low self-esteem, you're relatively well balanced and consider yourself to be a good sort of person, so this drivel about not thinking you're _worthy_ of a friendship with me is utterly absurd!"

John's mouth hung open slightly. "I… this isn't about me."

"It is when you try to set double standards, John."

"Look, just because I don't understand why you feel any sort of attraction towards me -"

Sherlock's voice was sharp. "Attraction?"

Oh _fuck_. "Fine, not attraction, any sort of… _want_ to know somebody like me, somebody who is essentially like everybody else taking the pre-med course, all with similar intelligence and skills – I could have been anyone, Sherlock, it could have been Mike that needed extra help with his coursework and it could have been _him_ that you ended up becoming friends with." He didn't know how else to put it. "I could have been anyone. But you… you're not just anyone."

It all sounded so… romanticised. Like he was talking, not about their friendship, but about the undercurrent stemming from the dark-haired genius that neither one of them were willing to admit to each other. He had no idea where it was all coming from, these words, but even as he said them he realised how true they were and how all along this had been how he'd felt and what he'd been wondering from the start. It was, as Sherlock had so rightly said, absurd.

Sherlock was looking at him like he was a madman. "Your skills? You think that we're friends because of your skills?"

"Well, no, not just that -"

"Clearly it's my turn to make an absolute fool of myself for your sake, John, so shut up for a moment and just listen so that I can get this out of the way."

"I -"

"I value you for your opinions, your outlook and your constant, ceaseless perseverance regardless of the odds stacked against you. I value your honesty, your generosity and your odd acceptance of me even at the very lowest point for us both when you could have quite easily walked away without a second thought or glance. I value your continued communication, your silences, your patience – even when I am being utterly incorrigible and unmanageable you somehow still manage to stay intent on being my friend regardless of my moods and my irrational behaviour. You don't judge me when you have every right to. I am a coarse, rude, ignorant and obnoxious yet you take it utterly in your stride and somehow, beyond any level of my own incredible comprehension, find it within yourself to look me in the eye and label me… extraordinary."

John's mind was racing. His stomach was attempting to leap straight up his oesophagus. "Wow, Sherl-"

Sherlock leaned forward, face still impassive but his eyes… warm. So warm. "As you sit here opposite me I find myself looking upon a man of immense kindness, understated empathy and a seemingly irrevocable regard for me that no human being before you has ever had the grace or courage to even attempt. Certainly I have never allowed such a person to get close enough to try. It would be fair, I think, for me to return the word you so generously allocated to me and say that, in fact, it is not me but rather _you_ , John Watson, who is the extraordinary one."

Suddenly everything that John had said about feelings earlier seemed to crumple in the dust compared to this… gift. Because it _was_ a gift. Because Sherlock had forced himself to bypass all of his walls and boundaries in order to offer these words to John, and nothing that John could possibly say in return could possibly match up. He didn't even want to try.

As it turned out, what he wanted to do was to cross the few steps over to his friend and, for the first time since they had become friends, hug him. Hard.

He was up off of the sofa and standing beside Sherlock's chair before he had a chance to remind himself that he didn't hug his friends.

"John?"

He shook his head once, an attempt to silence Sherlock's confusion as he reached down and grasped Sherlock within his outstretched fingers, wrapping them around the man's forearm and pulling him up and out of his seat – in his strange surge of determination he found it no struggle whatsoever – and hesitated for only a moment before he wrapped one arm around Sherlock's waist and threw the other over and behind the man's shoulder; his fists were clenched, an instinctual reaction to physical contact, but he hugged Sherlock Holmes tight to his torso and tried not to focus on the sudden familiar scent surrounding him and the actual feel of having the person he currently cared about most within his arms. It would be too intimate to allow himself to think about it. So he wouldn't think. He would just try and express everything he could not say in the hug and hope that perhaps Sherlock wouldn't react as _he_ would have done if it had been the other way around.

A voice just above his ear. He could actually feel the vibrations of Sherlock's voice from the man's throat. "What are you doing?"

"I'm hugging you, you miserable bastard."

A pause. "I'm not altogether sure how I'm supposed to respond."

Ah. Of course not. John quickly disentangled himself, his face flushing quickly as he brought his arms down to his sides and found himself nodding and then shaking his head, glancing up at the Sherlock who was still very close and then looked away, then back again. "Right, no. Sorry. Don't know what came over me."

Sherlock met his gaze unwaveringly. "Don't you?"

A door slamming, a bounding of light feet up the stairs; another pair, heavier, making their way to the living room as Greg – _GREG_ – popped his head around the door with an apologetic look on his face and hands out in defence –

"Sorry guys, we were on our way into town and Lauren needed the loo…"

He trailed off, his eyes flickering from one to the other as he saw the lack of space between them, the way that Sherlock was looking at John regardless of Greg's uninvited entrance, the shock and irritation on John's face; his mouth opened in a small 'o' shape, his eyes widening ever so slightly as he focused his expression towards John.

"Shit. Sorry guys, obviously interrupted -"

"You said you'd be out all night," John interrupted, not thinking, definitely not bloody thinking, folding his arms over his chest, undeniably annoyed. "You agreed to text me if something changed."

"I know, but Lauren, she was desperate and I didn't think anything _awkward_ was going to be happening -"

John could almost feel Sherlock's heated stare move rapidly from his own face and over to Greg instead, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he processed the words exchanged and the slightly too apologetic look on Greg's slightly flushed face; John had only to look fleetingly at Sherlock's roving eyes and stiffened body to know that he was reading every miniscule detail of their body language and conversation, barely even giving him a moment to save the situation before it was too late to do anything about it because, yes, it was definitely too late by the time he realised that Sherlock was no fool and that he would absolutely see everything that there was to see –

His voice was low, practically a growl. "He told you."

Greg's mouth dropped a little lower, the 'o' widening.

"Mycroft. He told you."

It was useless. Greg didn't have to say anything. The guilt was written all over his bloody face.

Finally, Sherlock turned his eyes back to John's own face.

It took him less than a second to read it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DAMMIT GREG!!!!**


	34. Something More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: Starting to get to the real nitty-gritty now, my darlings. It's going to get worse before it gets better! BUT it will get better. Promise. <3**
> 
> **Quick note - we've been reviewed on[FuckYeahJohnlock](http://fuckyeahteenlock.tumblr.com/post/84803438163/to-study-oneself)! A very kind, generous review too, though definitely some improvements to make if I want to bump up my 'A' grade to 'S' for Superior! I'm sure you all know me well enough by now to understand just how much I embrace this as a challenge... so, yes, head on over there to show your support for the admin team over there, particularly Archie who took the time to review.**
> 
> **Enjoy the chapter, everyone. Love and cuddles. COMMENTS ALSO LOVED AND CUDDLED.**

**Chapter Thirty-Four**

The light within Sherlock's eyes slowly started to dull; the intensity which had lingered before began to seep out like smoke and evaporated in the space around them until finally he was looking at John with all the emotion of a husk.

"I see."

John's stomach twisted to the point where he genuinely began to wonder if he would be sick, acid rising to his throat tasting like wine and intense discomfort – he began to reach out for his friends arm, an odd gesture considering his usual disregard for any form of physical comfort or affection, but Sherlock jerked away as if being threatened by a live wire. "Sherlock -"

"Please don't."

"Just let me explain to you -"

"I would prefer if you wouldn't."

John stared at him, a flawed desperation making its way through his veins and fuelling him. "Please, Sherlock, just sit down so that Greg and I -"

Sherlock's eyes flitted sharply to rest upon Greg's horrified face. "I think it would be better if he said nothing. Always nothing."

Greg took a hesitant step forward, his hands out defensively. "Look, mate, there was nothing malicious about it, all right? I didn't plan on telling him but he kind of forced it out of me."

John's mouth dropped open. "What?! I didn't force  _anything_  out of you, you were gagging to tell me!"

"You wouldn't drop it, what was I supposed to do?"

"Not blame me, for starters -"

" _Enough_." Sherlock did not shout, but he didn't need to; his voice, volume raised only by a notch or two, was forceful enough that it would have cut through a crowd. "Both of you, leave."

John shook his head, determined. "No, not until you -"

"Fine," the genius interrupted coldly, looking away from the both of them and towards the doorway, "if you won't leave then I will."

"Sherlock -"

If you'll excuse me." The taller man sidestepped around John and brushed past Greg as if he weren't even there, his eyes completely devoid of anything as he made his way out of the room and towards the door; John began to follow, pushing past Greg perhaps a little harder than he needed to and reaching once again for him. "Sherlock, please -"

"Please don't touch me," Sherlock warned quietly, still not looking at him, avoiding his eyes with every intent to never look into them again. "It would be of great detriment to my respect for you."

With that, he pulled the door open and stepped out into the cooling night air without even taking a coat, reaching behind him to close the door quietly without turning to face the house again. His footsteps were quick, the sound of them fading out until John was staring at the closed door with nothing but the sound of his own breathing in his ears.

Greg stepped into the hall. "John, I'm genuinely sorry."

John slowly turned to face him. "Which part exactly are you apologising for?"

A shrug, an awkward movement. "Well. All of it. Coming in, being as subtle as an elephant, blaming you. I panicked."

"Yeah, well, you're not the only one," John muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets and staring at the floor. "What are we supposed to do? Follow him?"

"If I follow him he'll probably deck me one."

John glanced up. "Probably."

"Are you going to go?"

Greg slipped his hand into his front pocket and plucked out his phone; as he did so, Lauren came bounding down the stairs. "Okay, sorry about that – ready to go?"

The two of them stared at her as if they'd quite forgotten her; she stared back.

"What? Have I got something on my face?"

"Loz..." Greg took a step towards her, reaching out and touching her arm; John looked away, not wanting to be a part of their moment. "I'm sorry babe but I'm going to have to cancel on you tonight. Something's come up."

Her pale brown eyes flickered between the two men. "Oh. Right. Can you not... rearrange something? Nate's only doing the set for an hour and I promised him we'd be there."

Greg looked utterly helpless under the intent gaze of the girl who was clearly aiming for him to get out of his newly formed drama. "I... I don't know, maybe if you go without me I can come along later?"

Lauren's expression darkened. "You want me to go on my own?"

"Well, only for a bit -"

"No, that's fine," she said snarkily, shrugging off his hand and walking towards the door. "Darren'll be there, he can keep me company."

Greg frowned, irritated. "That's a low blow, all right? He can keep his grubby mitts to himself unless he wants a black eye tomorrow -"

"Greg," John interrupted quietly, "it's fine. I can deal with Sherlock."

Lauren looked between them with narrowed eyes. "What, this is about your weirdo housemate? What's he done now?"

A fierce flame of protection licked its way up John's spine. "Weirdo?"

An amused smile flitted its way onto her glossy lips. "Sorry, forgot he's your boyfriend."

For once John didn't even bother arguing the term. "What's the point in insulting him when he's not here to defend himself?"

"Come on, even you have to admit he's pretty creepy. Or maybe that's your sort of thing?"

John's spine straightened and his hands curled into gentle fists. "Maybe you should stop worrying about what -"

"Chill out," Greg sighed, "both of you. Loz," he turned to her, apologetic to the last inch of him, "I'm sorry. I'll come along later if everything's cleared up."

"Whatever," she said with a wave of her perfectly manicured hand, "maybe I'll see you then. Have fun with your little domestic."

And she was out of the door without another glance back, though in stark contrast to Sherlock's calm she slammed the door and left them both with the sound of it ringing in their ears. John glanced at him. "Well. She's nice."

"Fuck off," Greg muttered, lifting his phone once again and starting to tap out a number. "I'm gonna call Mycroft, he'll have a better idea of what should happen now than either one of us."

John nodded. "Be quick and to the point, though. We don't know how much time we have."

Greg lifted the phone to his ear and turned partially away; they both waited in the silence as the phone rang, once, twice, three times, four -

"Mycroft, it's Greg. Yeah, well, Sherlock might have just found out that John knows about -" He cut off, his expression changing from concerned to slightly embarrassed. "I know, but John was – yeah, I get that, but I – all right, there's no need to throw around insults, we kind of have – no, he didn't. No. Haven't got a clue. He's here, hang on -" He turned to John. "Any idea where he might go?"

John shrugged, feeling utterly useless. "He's Sherlock Holmes, he could be anywhere."

Greg turned away again. "Did you hear that? Yeah. Yeah. All right. Do you think he'll answer? Fine. Okay. Will you call us and let us know? All right. No, I'll be here, no other plans – yeah, John'll be here too. All right. Talk soon." He hung up the phone and looked over at John. "He's going to try calling Sherlock to find out where he is. He's going to let us know."

Slowly John lifted his hands to his face and dragged his palms across the warm skin, trying to ground himself enough that he wouldn't fly out of the door and go running off in any direction in order to bring his best friend safely home. "Are we over-reacting? It's not like he's completely unstable."

Greg leaned against the door frame. "I dunno. It's not as if he's going to react to this like a normal person. I mean, what, if you were rejected by a girl you liked what would you do? Feel a bit shitty for a while then move on?"

John nodded, though he found it difficult to put the two scenarios side by side. "Probably. But this isn't exactly a normal situation, for so many reasons, probably more than my head is able to string together... and I don't want to bugger it up by doing the wrong thing. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before," he admitted with a hopeless raising of his palms to the air, "not with a girl  _or_  a man. Or anyone like Sherlock."

"Is there anyone like Sherlock? Other than Mycroft, of course."

He conceded the point. "Well. Exactly. And there's the fact that he's young, too -"

"I always forget he's younger than we are, he sure as hell doesn't act like it."

"Exactly. It's not by much, I know, but it does make a difference. It's like... he's a teenager with the comprehension of a ridiculously intelligent adult and the emotional maturity of a toddler. What are you supposed to do with that?"

Greg's gaze became awkward. "Does it make a difference... y'know, with how you feel?"

John rolled his eyes. "I thought we'd agreed that I'm not thinking of how I feel, not in regards to what you're saying anyway."

"Yeah, but... come on. You're twenty-four this year. Five year age gap. If he were a girl it'd be weird. Like an obsessive teenage stalker."

He tried to stay patient. "Really not thinking about it, Greg."

"You have to admit -"

"Look, even if it were a thought in my head... no, it doesn't make a difference. It doesn't make a difference in our friendship, if only because as you say he doesn't act like he's a hormone-ridden teenager, so it wouldn't make a difference if it were..."

Greg filled in for him. "Something more?"

John looked at Greg, his mind starting to churn. "I can't really put it like that."

A frown creased Greg's brow. "What do you mean?"

"You, phrasing it as 'something more'. It doesn't work."

"Why?"

He had to think about it before he could properly put it across in the right words.

"It... it implies that to change it to something romantic or sexual or whatever Sherlock's feeling would be to raise its importance, its meaning. I can't really think of it that way. If I'm really being honest -" He hesitated, not sure of how much he really wanted to say. "If I'm really being honest then, whatever it is that's between me and him, it's... different to any sort of friendship I've had before."

"Yeah, you said that before."

"No, but it's more than that, it's more than just being an intense friendship. He is... more important to me... than anyone. Anyone." He found that he could no longer look at Greg. The staircase suddenly became of great interest. "And I'm not saying it's romantic or it isn't because right now I just have no bloody idea  _what's_  going on, but my point is that whatever it  _is_ , it's... more than any relationship I've ever even been in. It's more than the longest of relationships I've had. I care... more."

Greg was staring at him, agape. "Riiiight. And you're sticking with the whole 'we're just friends' thing?"

John's eyes met Greg's. "When have I ever used the word 'just'?"

"...I don't get it." Greg breathed out a deep exhale, shaking his head back and forth and leaning his head back on the wooden frame behind him. "Sorry mate, but everything you've said just sounds like you're talking about your girlfriend. Or boyfriend. It sounds like a romantic thing to me."

"I don't expect you to understand when I don't even understand it myself. I suppose the easiest way to simplify it would be to say that even if something did change and we were suddenly labelling our relationship differently the actual thing itself wouldn't change. We'd still be like we are. Because I can't see how it could possibly become  _more_  than what it already is."

A slow grin found its way onto Greg's face. "You are such a fucking romantic. Seriously. That's some intense crap you've just spewed out right there."

John looked away, a small grin unfolding on his own lips. "Guess he's rubbed off on me."

Greg's no doubt inappropriate response was cut off by a low bleeping sound; he raised his mobile to his eyeline and quickly glanced at the content of the text message. "Oh. Greenwich Park."

John's whole body jerked with anticipation. "What? He's at Greenwich Park? Did Sherlock tell him that?"

A secret sort of smile twitched at the edges of Greg's lips. "Mate, you don't know the half of it. Mycroft doesn't need Sherlock to tell him where he is to find out. One answered phone call is all it takes."

John pushed himself away from the radiator he had been leaning against and nodded, not bothering to ask for more details; he had far more important things to be worrying about right now.

"Fine. Are you coming with me?"

Greg glanced back down at the text message again. "Mycroft said you should go on your own."

"Do you always do what Mycroft tells you to do?"

With a sigh and a small shrug, Greg slipped the phone back into his pocket and met John's gaze one more time. "If I did we wouldn't be in this mess in the first place... but he's right. It's not me he should be with."

**\- X -**

The walk gave him a lot of time to think, and by the time he had reached gates of Greenwich Park he'd thought so hard and so much that he'd managed to give himself a headache; because there was just  _so bloody much_  to think about.

The sheer fact that in the time they had known one another they had gone from being two people who could barely talk to each other, to begrudging allies, then to friends, best friends and finally  _this_  – whatever this was – had become steadily more and more obscene the longer he had thought on it. A month and a half, he worked it out to have been, and here they were in a midst of depression, emotional insecurity and the ever-present knowledge that things could have essentially already been torn to shreds in front of them without even having had a chance to breathe. He had heard of the sort of friendships that cemented within days and where two people became so dependant on one another that they couldn't function properly without being by each other's side, but he'd never been on the end of it before. He'd never come close. Even then, the idea of a 'dependant' friendship wasn't exactly right either. He didn't feel dependant on Sherlock, and regardless of Sherlock's developing feelings for him it didn't seem as if  _he_  were completely dependant on John either. They'd both survive the fall if their friendship didn't last through this emotional insanity.

The point was, however, that John didn't want to survive anything. He didn't want anything to end, nor change. The important part to him wasn't that they needed each other, though he would at least admit that this  _was_  true, the important bit was that they  _wanted_  to be in each other's lives as much as they were. They had chosen to spend the last month with barely a day spent without having seen one another. They had chosen each other as much as anyone can choose anything.

His depression may have been the cause of their meeting, but the effect of their still-growing friendship had been purely of their own doing. And that was something worth fighting for.

Now all he needed to do was convince Sherlock of the same thing – and he'd have his chance now. There, not too far from where he stood, John saw a figure cutting a lonely path up the hill; from a distance Sherlock looked like anybody else, someone taking a walk to a destination of their choosing without a single care in the world... and that made it more painful to see, somehow. To know that so many people would look at him and see a random 'anyone' when all John could see was the 'someone' he'd been desperate to find.

His legs picked up pace before his head even told him to move. "Sherlock." The man would not hear him from this far away, but that was unimportant; he was reminding himself of what he was here for, of what he would lose if he did not do or say the right things at this very moment. He began to run instead, determined to catch up and not particularly caring that actually it was pretty cold and that he should have at least snatched one of the hoodies he usually left strewn around Sherlock and Greg's house to put on; all he could focus on was getting there, getting to Sherlock and ending this madness quickly and calmly enough to bring him home in one piece.

He knew before he reached Sherlock that the man knew he was there: his pace quickened. "Stop walking, Sherlock," John panted from behind him, only a few metres away now. "Talk to me, come on."

No response; the long legs of the genius trying to get away from him lengthened their stride enough that John had to jog a little to keep up.

"Come on, I came all the way here to get you. Turn around and let's go home to talk about it."

"I don't want to talk about it," Sherlock replied shortly, not bothering to raise his voice despite the breeze trying to carry his words off in the opposite direction to John, "and I'd appreciate it if you left me alone."

John was now right behind him, enough that he could hear his slight breathlessness in every inhale he took. "We can't fix this if you keep running away from the problem; if you'd just told me about it last night -"

"So that you could look at me with the horrified gaze you gave me earlier and stutter your rejection to my face? No thanks, I'd rather stick with denial." Sherlock barked out a humourless laugh. "Not that  _that's_  an option now, clearly."

"Greg didn't mean anything by telling me, he wasn't trying to piss you off or upset you... he just wanted to clear things up for me."

Still he would not turn around to face him. "I don't care."

"Yes you do – look, stop being an idiot and talk to me!" John leaned forward and reached out to grab the back of Sherlock's top, pulling on it and not letting go even as Sherlock continued to try and walk at the same pace. "It doesn't matter to me!"

At this Sherlock stopped dead, turning on the spot and shooting such a cold stare at John that he started to wish that he  _had_  brought a hoodie along. "How on earth is that a good thing? How is it a good thing that you don't care?"

"I  _do_  care," John argued, shaking his head violently back and forth, "but it doesn't change anything,  _that's_  what I'm trying to say. You're overreacting, Sherlock."

"Of course I am," he agreed, the lack of emotion almost funny in its contrast with his acquiescence. "My brother decides to tell my housemate something that I told him in the strictest of confidence and then my housemate, idiot extraordinaire, tells the only person in the world that I wouldn't want to know about it and – let's ensure the perfect finale –  _he_  doesn't even have the decency to tell me that he knows." His icy eyes were fixed on John's like a magnet. "Of course I'm overreacting. How very silly of me."

John folded his arms across his chest, the old familiar frustration threatening to make an appearance. "Would you really rather that I had told you? That I'd sat you down tonight and said, 'it's great that you play the violin, oh, and by the way, Greg told me that you're in love with me'? That's what you would have wanted?"

The taller man snorted, looking away. "In love with you. I should've realised he'd resort to such ridiculous terms."

"What, so you're not in love with me?"

The eyes darted back to his. "Is that what this is? You want me to tell you to your face?"

"No,  _no_ , I'm not trying to get you to tell me  _anything_  – I just want you to come home and  _talk_  to me."

"About what?" Sherlock was frowning now, though John knew it was purely in order to mock him. "There's nothing more to say to you. The situation is as you've been told, though no doubt with a few embellishments, and nothing I can say or do will change what you think about it. So there's nothing more to say."

"Then let  _me_  talk to you."

The look Sherlock gave him was almost pitying. "And what would you say, John? That you're sorry but poor little Sherlock's feelings are to be disregarded and forgotten? That you  _care_  about me, just not in the same way? What you don't realise, John, is that before now I didn't give two damns whether you felt anything akin to what I apparently do, I would have been perfectly content to resume our friendship as it was and go on as if nothing had changed... but now the idea of pretending such a thing is categorically impossible. I can't do it. And neither can you. So what more is there that you could possibly say to me?"

John took a small step back. "I don't know."

"You see? As ever, I am right." There was no victory to his tone; if anything he seemed to deflate in stature and lose any hint of defensiveness. He was a husk again. "Due to the incompetence of my brother and housemate, our friendship has reached the end of its course. The best thing to do now would be to walk away and refrain from contacting each other again."

"No," John said, shaking his head once again. "You're wrong. We  _can_  fix this and we will, if you just give me a chance to try. You're not thinking straight."

"Just walk away, John." Sherlock mumbled, the exhaustion radiating from every inch of the man's body highlighting the finality of his words. "Just... give up and walk away. It's not worth this."

" _Don't tell me_  -" John steeled himself carefully, controlling the excessive volume and taking a step closer as he leaned in to deliver his words more quietly, urgently, angrily - "don't tell me it's not worth this, don't look me in the eye and tell me that  _this_  is not worthy of my time and effort. I practically  _ran_  the entire way here just to get to you and I cannot condone those words coming out of your mouth telling me that this is not worth anything to me. It is worth...  _so_ much more than you're giving me credit for."

"What do I have to do to get you to leave? Tell me, please, because I am  _beyond_  patience -"

"I know you're going through something right now, Sherlock." John's words were rapid, firing them out before Sherlock could even think about turning his heel and running from the situation. "Don't think I don't know that. It's unfamiliar, it's... it's  _emotional_... it's new. It's terrifying. I know that, I can see that in every word you're saying to me but running is not the answer. Do you hear me? Can you hear the words that I'm saying?" Nothing was enough, these words were just not enough. " _Do not run from me_. I am your friend and I care and I am not going to just abandon you because of how you feel."

"I wish you would, John," Sherlock murmured, turning his face away and closing his eyes. "Truly I do."

" _Why?!_ "

"Because I could have handled this before, I could have never said a word and let you live your life without the knowledge that your best friend is..." He broke off, shaking his head, finding John's gaze again and staring into it as if it were an abyss he knew he was falling into yet couldn't quite grasp a hold on the edges to pull himself up. "Do you know where I was tonight, John? Where I've been whilst you've been looking for me?"

John shook his head, his mind racing.

Sherlock dipped his hand into his pocket, pulling out something wrapped snug within the many folds of tin foil, holding it up in the rapidly disappearing light; he did not need to explain. John knew without a doubt what was within that little lump.

"No." The only word he could say. His head shaking back and forth. John had no other words for what the man opposite was holding between shaking fingers. "No."

Sherlock looked down at the sad little sphere and shrugged. "So there you are." He glanced up, no apology in his eyes. "Another reason for you to walk away."

John reached out for it without even thinking, moving on pure instinct, but Sherlock was too fast; it was behind his back in a fierce fist and he was backing away before John could even touch it. John's legs followed. "Give it to me."

"Give up, John."

" _Give_  it to me, Sherlock." It was a demand. There was no room for compromise. "Give it to me or I'm calling Mycroft."

A laugh that escaped Sherlock's throat was devastatingly twisted, full of bitterness, anger and sadness. "Call him! Call him. It makes no difference to whether I use it or not. Even his many,  _many_  contacts aren't fast enough to stop me."

"I'll call Greg, tell him to destroy your room until he finds every piece of apparatus you have and stomps on every one until they're unusable."

"As if I'd keep them in my room after last time."

This kicked John's emotions to new heights. Anger came to play. "After last time? Let's talk about that, shall we? What the hell happened to trying to stop? Trying to deal with the problem rather than avoiding it and just ending up back here again? Wasn't that what counselling was all about, Sherlock, wasn't that the whole bloody point? What did you even  _talk_  about?"

Sherlock stared at him incredulously. "What do you  _think_  we talked about? Heroin hasn't been on my mind in weeks, John. I've been too busy feeding my  _other_  addiction."

It was John's turn to close his eyes. "Right. So I'm just like heroin, am I? That searing high and then... what, destruction?"

"The high is you. The destruction is self-inflicted." Sherlock smiled humourlessly at his own words, his head turning again as he stared off towards the lights of Canary Wharf in the distance. "How poetic. See how you inspire me?" His tone was bitter again, full of empty self-loathing; that was it, the trigger. John had definitely had enough of talking now, of hearing that voice come out of those lips like an unfamiliar and unwelcome guest. Time for action. He took two steps forward towards Sherlock and found himself unsurprised when the genius backed away and then, quick as a fox, turned on his heel and started to stride up the hill again – John followed mercilessly, not saying a word, his legs moving faster in order to keep up; it was absolutely ridiculous, this chase, this slow-paced cat and mouse.

"Go home, John," Sherlock called back to him, not sounding in the least bit winded. His voice was emotionless. "We're finished here."

John shook his head as he started to jog. "Give the heroin to me and come home with me."

"No."

"If I have to tackle you to the ground to get that shit off of you, so help me I  _will_  do it, Sherlock."

Sherlock was walking towards the Observatory now – why? "If you were going to use violence you would have already done so by now."

Now that they were on flatter ground John was easily able to catch up on his smaller legs. "I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock, so just -"

Sherlock whirled around and was suddenly taking two, three, four steps towards him – John stopped dead: surprised, unsure - " _What do I have to do? What do I have to do to get it through your damned head_?" - and then Sherlock was closer than ever, his head was dipping down too fast to pull away from as suddenly there were lips pressed hard against his, dry and unforgiving in their pressure as Sherlock took one last stab in the dark to convince his best friend that it was beyond pointless to ever expect that things could return to the way that they had been. John was too shocked to rear back, too confused to respond and his fists were so tight and making his knuckles turn white because he was being kissed by the only person who mattered despite it being so very wrong and not at all the way that this was supposed to go -

Sherlock tore himself away and took a few stumbling steps back, bringing his fingers to his lips and staring at John as if he couldn't quite believe his own actions but then there was the inevitable acceptance in his eyes, the reluctant knowledge that he had finally done the only thing left in his arsenal in order to destroy whatever was left of their friendship. He spat his words like a curse. "There. Try reasoning with yourself now as to how  _fixable_  this is."

And then he was walking away towards the Observatory which had witnessed the whole thing, and John could not follow, could only watch as Sherlock strode like a man to the gallows towards the place that had been the scene of their first foray into the adrenaline rush that apparently only the other could provide.

John's hands trembled as he released their fists. He pulled his phone from his pocket. Found the number on his phone without even glancing down. Dialled. Brought it to his ear.

One ring. Two rings. Three -

"Have you found him?"

"Yes," John said dully into the phone, his eyes still focused on the figure that was growing smaller and smaller in the distance, "but he's gone. Greenwich Observatory. He has drugs."

Silence at the other end. A small sigh, Mycroft clearing his throat. "I'll get a car. Don't worry about phoning Gregory, I'll do so whilst on my way."

"Fine. Should I go to him?"

Another pause. "Go home, John. I'll take it from here."

He couldn't just go home. "I can't just do nothing, Mycroft. This is my fault."

"Don't be so utterly ridiculous." He could hear movement, could hear doors closing and murmured voices in the background. "My brother is wholly to blame for this melodramatic display and it's pointless to start laying blame where it doesn't belong."

_Melodramatic display?_  "Mycroft, he's confused out of his right mind. Yesterday he came to terms with these feelings and today he's had to face the fact that I know about it, he doesn't know whether he's coming or going and he's completely beside himself with... with  _everything_! This is like nothing he's ever experienced before -"

"Please don't lecture me about what he is or is not feeling, John, I know far better than you the way that his mind works; I'm well aware that he's damaged and that this is a dangerous situation, I merely think that you've done all that you can do and it's time to deal with it in a different manner." His tone softened. "Go home and get some rest. I will call you tomorrow to let you know of the outcome."

John closed his eyes, still reeling. "I can't keep up, Mycroft, this is all just... insane. It happened so fast." Was he talking about the situation or the kiss? "I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

Another sigh, deeper this time. "I assume telling you to walk away from the situation and starting life anew would be a waste of both of our time?"

"Sherlock's told me to do that about twenty times tonight and I'm still standing here. You're not going to be much more successful."

Mycroft seemed full of pregnant pauses this evening. "Might I ask... what is it that keeps you here?"

"I don't understand."

"You have enough to be going on with in your own life, wouldn't you say? This new brand of drama, Sherlock's newest addiction..." There it was again, another allusion to John being some sort of drug that Sherlock couldn't shake from his system. "Do you not think it would be more pertinent to deal with your own troubles and leave Sherlock to deal with his?"

Sherlock was out of sight now. John felt a strange pull to hang up the phone and go after him without Mycroft's help. "We had this exact conversation well over a month ago, Mycroft. Nothing's changed since then. Actually, no," John shook his head, regardless of whether Mycroft could see it, " _everything_  has changed and that's exactly the reason I'm standing here now. Sherlock is my best friend and the last thing  _I_  want to do right now is leave and give him every reason to retreat back into the hellhole he dug himself into two years ago."

"So that's your motivation, is it? Purely selfless and for his benefit? Nothing in it for you?"

John's teeth ground together. "What I get out of this has nothing to do with anything."

"So you  _do_  get something out of it. Tell me, what are your intentions with my brother?"

The amusement lingering in the back of Mycroft's tone was almost completely cancelled out by the genuine question, the serious undertones. "I intend to get him back from the brink of wherever he is and find a way of making this okay. Or are you asking me if I plan to shag him? Say what you mean, Mycroft, I've had pretty much all I can take of undercurrents and insinuations this side of 2013."

"Well, there's no need to be coarse." The slamming of a car door, the rumble of an engine. "But I suppose I may as well bite; do you return his feelings, or hope to?"

That bloody question again. "It hasn't even crossed my mind. I'm really not focusing on that side of things right now, though if we're brushing over the subject I might as well throw out there that I'm not gay, not even slightly, and have never had even an  _inkling_  of feelings for a man before."

This time the pause was full of things that neither one of them needed to say. "I see."

"Spit it out, Mycroft."

"I beg your pardon?"

John found himself turning away from the Observatory, looking instead towards the city. "I don't have the patience for this. Just tell me what you're not saying."

"I was merely wondering if perhaps it's necessary to label yourself when it's a matter of feelings for a singular person rather than for the... appendages."

His teeth gritted together once more, an uncomfortable sensation for an uncomfortable subject matter. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I  _think_  you're assuming that my feelings aren't quite completely platonic."

"Are they?"

"Like I said before, I haven't even got close to thinking about that yet. My main concern is Sher-"

"So it's entirely possible?"

His patience slipped away like silk. "For crying out loud, why is it so important to you all that I decide on anything? What possible difference would it make if I do or don't?"

Mycroft's tone was full of steel. "You underestimate the hope it would bring to my brother's current condition."

"Condition? He's in love with me, Mycroft, he's not suffering from a bloody STD!"

"Both of which being maladies he's never encountered before. You don't seem to see the importance of -"

"No, Mycroft, it's  _you_ , and Greg, and probably anybody else who could possibly get involved that don't understand what the  _importance_  here is. All I care about, and it seems to me that I'm the only one giving a shit about this right now, is making sure that Sherlock doesn't completely fall apart before there's a chance to hold him together. I think it's probably high time that everybody just  _drops_  the curiosity about where my feelings are and instead focuses on where  _his_  are and how to keep them under control. Can you understand that? Is there some way you can bring yourself to stop asking about me and think about him instead?"

He listened to the roar of wheels on the road against the silence for a few moments. "He is all I am thinking of."

"Right."

"But I appreciate your... candour."

John sighed. "I'm sure you do."

"Go home, John. I'll be in touch." The line went dead; John held the phone to his ear for a few lingering moments before slowly bringing it down to his side and letting it hang there, useless.

For a few moments, at least.

Bringing it back up to his eyeline he forced aside the gradually developing loss of emotion and began to type.

_The fact that I'm going home doesn't mean that you've won, Sherlock._

By the time he reached the main road, he'd already got a response.

_The fact that you think I view this as a victory just goes to show how ignorant you truly are._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: Okay folks, a few visual aids! :D**
> 
> This here is how I picture Sherlock and Greg's house, though you can see the front garden in my head and it's veeeeery pretty. ^_^
> 
>   
> This is a walkway through Greenwich Park (for those that don't know, yes, it's TOTALLY a real, awesome place just outside of London).
> 
>   
> This is the hill leading up to the Observatory in the story, and on the right there you can see the Observatory itself.
> 
>   
> This is the view from the top of Greenwich Park in the day, with Canary Wharf in the distance.
> 
>   
> This is the view from the top of Greenwich Park at the sort of time that this chapter is set, so this is how you can imagine it!
> 
>   
> Aaaand this is the view from the top of Greenwich Park at night, which in the chapter where they break into the Observatory would be the view they would see from the top of the hill. ^_^
> 
>   
> 


	35. Half-Naked Flannel Rubbing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: Another update - just like old times, eh? Hope you enjoy this one, it's the longest one yet and was so much fun to write I can't even put it into words. Simple things really are the best. <3 COMMENTS ARE FAWNED OVER AND THE COMMEN...TATORS... EVEN MORE SO!**

**Chapter Thirty-Five**

_Mycroft Holmes: I have escorted Sherlock to our home where he will stay for the remainder of term, as well as for the summer holidays. Await further instruction._

Light off, curtains drawn and laptop sat in its usual place on the chair opposite him, John stared down at his phone screen with barely a flicker of emotion on his taut face. So, Mycroft had taken Sherlock home. He hadn't got to say goodbye, or any of the other thousands of things he probably needed to say, and now he was expected to simply crawl back into his hole and stay there until Mycroft decided that there was something more for him to do.

At this moment in time, John wasn't all too sure that there was anything that he  _could_  do.

_Are your parents aware of the situation?_

Not that it mattered. Though Sherlock had never gone into great detail about his family, only passing comments here and there, it was obvious that his parents were good people with good intentions; Sherlock had once commented with an almost affectionate exasperation that they were the most ordinary, easily-pleased folk on this earth and that he had never been quite certain of where his superior knowledge had been born from. Greg had rolled his eyes in response and told John that Mrs. Holmes was actually a brilliant mathematician to which Sherlock had snorted derisively and added that though she was perhaps 'above average' she certainly wasn't anything close to a genius as he considered himself to be. And smiled. He had smiled reluctantly at this. John could recall the smile with almost worrying clarity. It had been the warmest smile he'd ever seen in his life, small as it was.

The fact that Sherlock clearly adored his mother was incredibly endearing.

_Mycroft Holmes: I have informed them that he has had a trying few months and is in need of constant observation. They are not aware of his situation with you._

So they didn't know about him; Sherlock had not mentioned him. John wasn't sure whether this was reassuring or not. To be completely frank he wasn't altogether sure of how he felt about all of this in general, if only because the moment he had watched Sherlock walk away from him he'd found that the almost comfortingly familiar smog of nothing had settled back upon his shoulders like a worn cloak. He had not left his room for nearly twenty-four hours save for visiting the bathroom, nor did he plan to. He had emailed Joanne the second time he had awoken from his restless slumber and informed her that he was not going to be in his seminars for the next few days, to be met with a response of pure concern rather than consternation – understandable since he had been doing so well recently. Thanks to Sherlock and his increasingly intense study programme he had found his grades steadily rising once more to the point where he had a chance of passing this year with good marks should be continue along that gradient; if nothing else he was resolved to at least write his end of year essays and attend his exams, even if his seminar attendance would suffer.

And he had his counselling session with Jim next week. He mustn't forget that. He still owed that to Sherlock, regardless of their situation.

_Is he okay?_

The truth was that John, poetic as it was, felt almost like a ship without an anchor. Or perhaps not; perhaps it was closer to the feeling of being anchored in place rather than being cut free to sail and go wherever he wanted – yes, that was more like it. He felt limited, his liberty stolen from him as he sat rusting in the water. He hadn't capsized, he wasn't drowning, but he was stuck. Static. No way of moving forward. It was worse than if he was drowning because, at least if he was beneath the water, he wouldn't have to face the reality of the situation as it was. Sherlock's parting words – yet again accusing him of ignorance – rang deep and heavy in his ears and reminded him that the man had stated his wish to never lay eyes upon him again... and that in itself was an absurd consideration. He had spent the most fulfulling, invigorating time of his university experience with Sherlock Holmes and now he was expected to continue moving forward without him. It seemed an impossible task. Everything seemed impossible.

He was so very, very limited.

_Mycroft Holmes: He is as to be expected._

Slowly, body aching from lying still for such an extended period of time, John clicked off of the text message and found himself composing a new message to a new recipient, his fuzzy head barely even aware of what he was doing or why; even as he saw the name he was texting he found himself simply mildly confused rather than discouraged.

_Are you sober enough to call me? J_

Moments later his phone began to ring; hazily he answered the call, bringing it to his ear and closing his eyes.

"Hi."

"All right, loser? It's three in the morning, what the hell are you doing awake?"

John sighed, already irritated by the mocking tone in her voice. "Nice to speak to you too, Harry. You sound nice and... buzzed."

A small laugh. "Don't be such a smart arse, I'm sober as a judge."

"Yeah? So what are  _you_  doing awake at 3am?"

"Good question. Hang on." There was a slight muffling sound, the gentle hum of a female murmur in the background. "Right, sorry. Katie was wondering who was dickish enough to text me this time of the morning."

John groaned. "Please tell me I didn't interrupt something...  _something_."

"Don't worry, we were only just getting started."

"Ugh. I'd rather you'd just lied."

"No can do, bro. So, spit it out, I've got a very naked woman waiting for me to do some unspeakable things to her – what's up?"

He'd forgotten how blunt she could be. "Right, just need to burn that image away..."

He could hear the grin in Harry's voice. "Yeah yeah. Seriously though, what's going on? You never want to talk to me."

"First time for everything."

"So...?"

His mind went completely blank. Why  _had_  he wanted to speak to Harry? "I, err... I have no idea, actually. I just... mm. I don't know."

A moment of silence. "Are you in trouble? Is someone else there?"

John couldn't help but laugh; typical Harry to jump to the most dramatic conclusion she could. "No, no one's here but me. And I'm not in trouble, though I love that you think I'd call  _you_  of all people to help me if I was."

"Well excuuuuuse me for thinking my little brother might come to me for help. And if you're not in trouble and you don't know why you've called me, can I hang up now? Katie's got her hands busy and I rather want to join her."

John groaned again and forced the images out of his head of the faceless Katie and her busy hands, his mind racing as he attempted to remember what the possible motivation of calling his sister could have been -

Ah.

His sister.

His...  _gay_  sister.

"Harry."

"John."

"You're..." He sighed, skating himself lower until he was lying flat on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. "You're... a lesbian." A snicker, followed by another unfamiliar laugh; his eyes narrowed, suspicious. "Wait, am I on loud-speaker?"

"Yep. Say hello to Katie!"

"No, I'm not – take me off of loud-speaker, Harry, for crying out loud..."

"Hello John!" A female voice said, slightly quieter than Harry – further away, most likely. "Nice to meet you!"

"No, it's not nice to meet me, it's bloody uncomfortable to meet me," he replied irritably, his fingers pressing against the plastic casing of his phone as his frustration rose. "Harry, take me off of loud-speaker or I'll hang up the phone."

Another snigger. "That's fine, I have other things to be getting on with. Oi, get your hand out of there -"

"Oh, god, please stop," John moaned, rubbing his hand over his face, "fine, fine, keep me on loud-speaker, it doesn't really make a difference if your girlfriend hears this, not like she's going to run off to tell Mum and Dad -"

"Ooooh, what would she tell Mum and Dad?" That had perked her interest. "You  _are_  in trouble, aren't you? Are you taking drugs? Which ones?"

This was impossible. Harriet was impossible. "No, I'm not taking drugs. Look, if you're really too busy to talk to me I'll go."

"No!" Katie's voice echoed in the background. "Harry, tell him he can't go."

"Katie says you can't go."

"I'm not going to talk just to satiate your need for gossip!"

"Oh, go on," Harry said teasingly, her voice a little louder. "Seriously though, talk to me, you  _never_  want my advice. I'm a lesbian."

"What?"

"That's where we were when you started getting snarky. I'm a lesbian. What does that have to do with anything?"

Oh, yes. The matter at hand. Fantastic. He sighed again, deeper this time. "It's complicated."

Katie's voice came out again. "Do you fancy a lesbian?"

"No, I -"

"Oh, fucking hell John, we  _hate_  that sort of thing. You can't just  _turn_  her and expect her to want to suck your knob just because of some sort of misogynistic expectation." Harry sounded genuinely annoyed. "Leave the poor girl alone and let her enjoy her carpet."

Yes, calling Harriet had been a mistake. "Forget it. Forget it, I'm hanging up now -"

"No, no! Tell us about your lesbi-love!"

"I'm not in love with a fucking lesbian, a man is in love with me!" And there it was, the reason he had called his sister; silence met his words, filled devastatingly with his own discomfort and regret for letting his irritation with Harry force him to say the words he hadn't really wanted to say at all. But he'd said it now. It was too late to take them back. He took in a deep breath and attempted to sound slightly more sound of mind. "A man... a friend... is in love with me. And I have no idea what I'm supposed to do."

A few more moments of awkward silence before Katie spoke quietly. "Fuck."

"Yeah," Harry agreed weakly, her voice suddenly sounding far away, "fuck."

"Fuck indeed." He didn't know what else to say. "So that's... that."

Katie's voice was almost dripping with curiosity. "Do you fancy him back?"

"Don't ask my brother that," Harry admonished bossily, "he doesn't know who you are. John?"

"Mm?"

"Do you fancy him back?"

His bottom lip found its way between his teeth and began gnawing away. "Can we not focus on that part right now?"

"OH MY GOD, YOU'RE A GAY MAN."

He sat straight upright. "Harry, what -"

"MY BROTHER IS A GAY MAN, FUUUUCKING HELL. No grandchildren for Mum and Dad, they're gonna blow their fucking  _nut_!"

"Harry, stop being so stupid -"

"They could always adopt," Katie said reasonably, the slight muffling of a duvet rustling in the background, "I mean, tons of gay couples do it."

"Yeah, but Mum and Dad have been talking about grandkids since we were walking -"

"Harry."

"I suppose I could always be a surrogate or something, that way it's sort of like getting two grandchildren in one go -"

"HARRY!" He was shouting; he didn't care. He heard the moment of almost offended silence before she finally responded.

"What?"

"Stop talking about being a surrogate mother to mine and Sherlock's imaginary children and  _help_ me!"

"Sherlock?" He could hear the distaste in her voice and, just as when Lauren had called him a weirdo, he felt the same lick of fiery protectiveness shoot up his spine. "What sort of name is Sherlock?"

"It sounds like a rich person's name," Katie mused. "Is he rich?"

John flopped back down onto the bed. "Yes."

"Ooooh." Harry sounded impressed. "Maybe Mum and Dad will forgive you, then. They still haven't forgiven me, I'm obviously picking the wrong people."

"They haven't forgiven you for being an alcoholic at twenty-three, Harry, not because you're a lesbian."

"Yeah, good point. Though just because I like to enjoy myself doesn't mean I'm an alcoholic, I haven't had a single drink today -"

"There was that mimosa this morning, babe." Katie again.

"Oh. Yeah. Well, that's a morning drink, that doesn't count."

Though John was loathe to admit it, there was something oddly comforting about this conversation. Familiar. Not familiar like Sherlock was familiar, but familiar nonetheless. Though he still felt the burgeoning numbness like a fog in his chest, he had to admit that it was better to be having this somewhat disturbing conversation than sitting alone in his room re-thinking everything that had been happening.

"I had one too."

"Exactly, and you're not an alcoholic -"

"Harry," he interrupted again, though slightly more patient this time, "and Katie, I suppose... I really do need you to help me figure out what to do. I mean, have you ever been in this situation?"

The two of them thought about it for a moment. "Well, if we're assuming that you  _don't_  feel the same way -"

"Let's do that."

"Then, I mean, sure. I've had girls like me that I don't fancy back before. Awkward as hell. Remember Toni?"

John  _did_  remember Toni, one of a string of girls that Harry had slept with and then gone on to break their hearts the morning after; Toni in particular had taken it rather badly. He vaguely recalled the 'c' word being over-used. "It doesn't count if you've already shagged them."

"Course it does." Harry was obviously grinning, her tone entirely changed. She was enjoying herself. At least somebody was. "My point is, she was totally obsessed and she wouldn't leave me alone for  _months_. My first restraining order," she remembered fondly, warmly, "I'll never forget it."

"It's not quite like that," John said tiredly, closing his eyes again. "He's not obsessed with me. He's my best friend."

"I thought that podgy one was your best friend – what's his name, Mitch?"

"Mike."

"Yeah, him. I thought he was your best mate."

"He was, until Sherlock."  _Until Sherlock_. Yes, it was an event. It was a defining moment. In the dark of his room it was easy to admit. "We've been friends for going on two months."

"Two months?" Katie sounded amused. Obviously  _she_  was enjoying this too. He was starting to wish he'd just left them to have sex. "And he's in love with you? Sounds like your brother's a chip off the old block," she teased Harry, a flurry of movement at the end of the phone emitting a peal of giggles, "people falling for him days after meeting him."

"It's not like that, they're new feelings... we didn't even  _like_  each other when we first met."

Harry let out a low chuckle. "Mm, early onset sexual tension. My favourite. Remember, babe?"

More giggling. John fought the urge to just hang up the phone. "Calm down, you two, it's not like that. He's not like that. There's nothing... sexual about it." Was there? He had no idea. He didn't feel ready to think about that. "It's just emotional."

"Emotional? Can't say I know what that is." Harry seemed to be genuinely mulling it over. "So,  _emotional_  tension leads to him being crazy in love with you. And you don't know how you feel about it."

"Yeah. So I could use some advice. Not sure girls being in love with you helps either, considering you're already a lesbian."

"I had a guy in love with me about a year back," Katie piped up, her voice getting a little louder as she apparently leaned in closer. "He was really nice, actually, a really sweet guy but... well, you know, I like girls. Obviously. So I had to gently tell him to stop sending me flowers and move on."

That wasn't exactly accurate to his and Sherlock's situation, but he's take what he could get. "Was he a friend of yours?"

"Yes, my best friend actually. I'd always thought of it as totally platonic, we never mucked around when we were kids or anything, we'd kissed once maybe but that was just to see what kissing was all about." John stomach knotted slightly at the notion of kissing; he hadn't forgotten. He'd thought of it more than he wanted to admit. "But then, eleven years later, he's telling me he's always been in love with me and he'd do anything for a chance with me. It was hard to tell him no."

He didn't want to ask the next question, knowing the answer. "Did it ruin your friendship?"

"I'll say," she said with a laugh, though there was an obvious tinge of sadness behind it. "He never really got over it. He's engaged to some other woman now but he still texts me, telling me he'd give it up if I ever told him I wanted to be with him. It's sad."

Yes, that was exactly what he'd expected and the expectation didn't make it any easier to hear; his sigh was full of unspoken thoughts, fluttering around him like sadistic reminders of his situation. "Right."

"Doesn't mean it always ends that way," Harry interjected kindly, her tone softer than he'd heard it before. "Maybe you and your fella will be different. Did he tell you directly that he loves you, or...?"

And so he went into it, right from the beginning. John allowed her (them) to become a part of the truth he'd kept from his parents, about his depression and falling grades, going on to explain Sherlock – William – and his irritating arrogance, impressive knowledge and, eventually, his oddly captivating charm. He found himself going into almost embarrassing detail about the first time he had heard Sherlock's voice, then meeting him for the first time at the party; he could hear it for the first time ever in his voice the way in which he spoke of his best friend, the impossible to ignore undertones of respect and awe, the disbelief as he described the idea of someone like him being drawn to someone like John. He heard the laughter in his voice as he told the story of their break-in to the Observatory, and the conversation afterwards; he even found himself regaling them in tales of their domesticity as they spent more and more time together, barely pausing for breath as he told them about Redbeard The Hairy and making pesto chicken. Eventually his tone changed, and even then he could not deny that he was hearing himself as everybody else heard him: the softness in his tone as he told them of Sherlock agreeing to take care of him after his injury; the strange longing timbre whilst brushing over the way Sherlock had caressed his thumb with his wrist; the tremble of words he could barely string together remembering the proximity, the reality of Sherlock's closeness and touch during not only when he cleared up the mess of dried blood on John's chest but afterwards, with Sherlock's fingers clamped around his wrist and his body just millimetres away.

The tearing confusion as he described finding out about Sherlock's feelings and the aftermath.

A gratified silence met the end of his epic story, his throat almost sore from nearly half an hour of talking; he swallowed hard, wishing he had a glass of water beside him and wishing even more that perhaps  _someone_  were beside him – not just anyone, but... him. Sherlock. He wanted to be with his best friend and, very strange indeed, he wanted Sherlock to have heard the way he had spoken of their time together. He wanted Sherlock to have heard the sheer amount of detail and the unhidden emotion beneath each word, to understand just how clear these memories were and how tight John kept hold of them deep beneath his calm.

Even John was alarmed by the amount he had recalled with such clarity.

A whisper. "I don't know what to say to him."

"Neither do I," Harry admitted, a first – Harry always knew what to say, even if it wasn't particularly appropriate. "John... bloody hell, John."

"Yep," he said with a weak smile, rubbing his palm to his eyes. "That's about where I am too at the moment."

"What the hell are you going to do?"

"That's sort of why I was talking to you, Harry, I was kind of hoping you'd be able to -"

"No, this is way out of my league," she cut across, sounding genuinely apologetic, "never even heard of something so... so...  _romantic_  before. Not in real life."

Romantic. There was that word again. Greg had called him a romantic a couple of nights before. He'd never even considered himself as one before. "It's not exactly Pride and Prejudice, Harry..."

"That's because there's nothing even remotely romantic about that book. And your story WAS romantic. Him making the effort to call you to tell you you're a git, his surprise entrance at the party, going for a candlelit dinner -"

"It wasn't candlelit."

She continued as if he hadn't interrupted. " -breaking into Greenwich Observatory, that intense moment outside when you grabbed his sleeve and told him that he was the only thing that wasn't  _nothing_  to you... and don't even get me started on the rest. The way he looked after you, bloody hell John, and the half-naked flannel rubbing? That is some intense crap you just vomited, seriously."

He grinned slightly. "You sound like Greg. If you were straight I'd set the two of you up."

"He liked the half-naked flannel rubbing, huh?"

"No, not... forget it. Just... tell me what I should do. Help me figure it out. Katie, any ideas?"

"...not really," she said apologetically, sounding further away again. "Sorry, John, but it sounds like a really complicated situation. He's not at uni anymore?"

No. He was god knows where. He realised he hadn't even the faintest idea of where Sherlock lived. "He's with his Mum and Dad. And possibly his brother."

A pause. Harry's voice again. "You should go to him."

"Impossible, don't know where he lives."

"Text Piecroft -"

He snorted, the noise very much like Sherlock's own noise of amusement. "Mycroft, Harry, not  _Pie_ croft..."

"Well, whatever, weirdo names. Text him and tell him that you want to come and visit and don't take no for an answer." Her tone was getting warmer, more enthusiastic. "Turn up on his doorstep in the rain!"

Katie popped in again. "With a red rose!"

"And then kiss him! Oh my god, tell him you love him and kiss him!"

"Fuck me, I'm not going to do  _any_  of that, calm down! For one, I can't control the weather -"

Harry interrupted him for what felt like the millionth time that evening. "But you can still kiss him!"

"I'm not going to kiss him," John said patiently, forcing his eyes open as the unbidden image of Sherlock leaning down with impossible speed towards him flooded his brain, "and I'm not going to tell him I love him. With a red rose."

"Why not?!"

Okay, John might have been ignorant but he was nothing compared to his twin sister. "Because I  _don't_  love him."

It was the first time he had said those words out loud.

They weighed in his stomach like iron.

Harry wasn't taking any of it. "Bullshit. You love him."

"You love him," Katie echoed.

"I don't." Even to his own ears it sounded incredibly like a lie. "I told you this already, girls, I love him but I don't -"

"YOU JUST SAID YOU LOVED HIM!" The screech was so painful John had to temporarily remove the phone from his ear. "YOOOOOU FUCKING SAID IT, JOHN HAMISH WATSON -"

No he hadn't, had he? He had meant to say, 'I care about him  _but I don't love him_ ' but... had he said it? His head laughed manically at him. He tried to distract himself, her. "Call me by that name again and I'll hang up on you, Harry!"

"Yoooou looooove himmmmm," she sang down the phone, clearly in reams of delight, "you want to kissssss him in the raaaain... wait, what's that song?" She started to sing properly now. "I don't miiind spending every daaaay out on the corner in the pooouring raaaaain -"

"Look for the girl with the broken smiiiiile," Katie joined in, "ask her if she wants to stay a whiiiiile and she WIIIIIIILL BE LOOOOOOVED -"

"JOHN WIIIIIIILL BE LOOO-OOO-OOOVED!" The two of them collapsed in manic giggles, leaving John at the other end of the line with a thumping headache, the weight of his verbal slip in his stomach and his brain in tatters – not to mention his eardrums.

"Oh, John, I'm sorry," Harry was practically gasping, "I'm so sorry but it's  _true_ , you DO love him, you should've seen the meaningful looks me and Kate were giving each other -"

"I don't," he continued to deny, shaking his head back and forth as he once again wished he'd just hung up and let them have sex, "I don't love Sherlock, I  _care_  about him but I'm not in love with him."

"Hang on, you're missing a fairly important difference there," Katie said with another random giggle, "you used 'love' and 'in love' to mean the same thing."

"...and?"

"There's a HUGE difference," she said eagerly, "and clearly you need educating."

"...all right..."

"Love is like... well, you know what love is. It's a deep, personal thing you feel for someone you care deeply about, something that develops slowly and one day you reach the not unpleasant realisation that you love them. Or you just love someone automatically 'cos they're family."

John frowned. "So what's 'in love' then?"

Harry spoke this time. " _In_  love is pretty much like they explain in movies. Kind of like... falling. You lose your footing and suddenly  _whoosh_ , you're there, you're falling in love and there's not a damned thing you can do to stop yourself. They're the only one who can catch you and the only one you'd ever want to."

John stared into the darkness ahead of him. "I... don't think I've ever felt that before. I didn't think there was a difference."

"So there you are," Harry said confidently, "you  _love_  him but you're not  _in_  love with him."

A mumble came from further away. "Yet."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, "you're not in love with him  _yet_."

It was bloody confusing. How did girls know this sort of stuff? "Well from what you've said the two don't have to be inclusive of one another. You don't have to ever fall in love with someone to love them, right?"

"Deeeniiiial," Harry sang, off-note and off-putting. "Come back to me in another month's time and tell me you haven't fallen head over heels for him. I'll give you my guitar."

"I'd rather have your car."

"Well, you're not getting it."

"I'm not going to fall in love with him, Harry – and you too, Katie, I can practically hear you shaking your head from here. I don't think I'm...  _capable_  of it."

"You are so fucking closed-minded," his sister said with an almost audible eye-roll, "to think that you're not capable of falling in love with someone just because he has the same bits as you."

He realised with a start that she'd misunderstood him – that he hadn't even thought of it that way. He'd forgotten that he was talking about the possibility of falling in love with another man. He didn't think of Sherlock like that. When had he stopped being so hung up on the fact that a man was in love with him and instead was focused on the fact that his  _best friend_  was in love with him?

"I, err... I actually meant that I don't think I could... y'know, the strength of feeling you described, it doesn't... I don't think..."

"He doesn't think he could ever fall in love with  _anyone_ ," Katie whispered conspiratorially.

"What? John, that's utter crap."

"I just can't imagine ever getting that close to someone, that willing to sort of... well. Fall."

"Pfft. You want my opinion?"

No. "Not re-"

"I reckon you're already halfway there. I mean, if someone as emotionally redundant as him can do it, then you can too. You remember Sarah, you were totally into her."

John did not want to be reminded of his ex-girlfriend. "I remember her, and this is totally different. The feelings are different."

"Yeah? Well tell me this, little bro, does he make you smile?"

"...yes..."

"Do you think about him when you're not with him? A lot?"

John gritted his teeth. "Maybe."

"Does talking to him brighten your day? Do you miss him when he's not there? Do you notice little details and love even his most irritating habits?"

"Not sure I like  _all_  of his habits -"

"Everything you described earlier – he makes your palms sweat, makes your heart go all fluttery, gives you butterflies, all that bollocks... John, love, dear brother o' mine, you are halfway there and you don't even  _know_  it."

"Yeah, but -"

"Someone you're just friends with doesn't do all of that," she interrupted gently. "It just doesn't happen. I know you think you're being selfless by focusing on his feelings and I  _know_  you have this depression to worry about, you  _know_  I understand how you feel, but at some point you're going to have to sit down and properly decide what's going on not just in your head, but in your ol' ticker too. Because you love him, and you've  _never_  said you love your friends before -"

"I didn't mean to say that," John leapt in, starting to feel a little sick. "That was an accident."

"But you do."

He remained silent. He didn't know what to say.

She continued regardless, without mercy. "So maybe you need to figure out, not if you're in love with him because you'll  _know_  when that happens, believe me, but... you need to figure out your feelings, at least. Because when you do figure it out, it's not just you that'll be affected. I genuinely think that if you're going to move on from all of this, no matter which way it goes, you need to work out where you're at."

The words fell from his lips before he had a chance to stop them. "I'm a bit scared, to be honest."

"Course you are. But we all have to do things that scare us or we never move forward. And you  _need_  to move forward."

He finally said something he'd been thinking about since he'd left Greenwich Park the day before, something that somehow genuinely bothered him. "It's all happened so quickly, how do I know all of this is even genuine? How do I know that he -"

"Speaking as someone who's only heard what you've said, so I admit it may not be totally accurate, this Sherlock fella sounds like someone who wouldn't just freak out over something that's not really there. He'd just disregard it."

"I agree," Katie said, surprising John; he'd forgotten she was there.

"So give yourself a little time. Maybe you just need a kick up the bum, something to happen to spur you into figuring your shit out. True, for most people this would've been enough, heroin and all, but some people need a bit more of a push and you're obviously one of those people." A smile slipped into her tone like butter. "Just be sure to keep me updated."

"And me!"

John gave one last attempt at avoidance. "I'm not...  _gay_."

"And I prefer blondes," Harry replied simply. "Yet here I am in bed with the hottest brunette in all of Surrey."

Her point was obvious, effective. John could not believe what he was actually about to say.

"I guess I'll... think about it. Properly. I'm not going to say I think it'll go one way or the other or that I'll act on whatever I decide, but... all right. I'll give it some thought."

"That's my boy," said Harry triumphantly. "Feeling better?"

John considered this; his head was still a mess, it was true, but talking it out with someone who wasn't as biased as Greg and awkward as Mycroft had certainly had its advantages. "Somewhat."

"Good."

"I'll leave you two to have sex, then."

Katie giggled; Harry was blatantly smirking as she spoke. "Right you are. I'm wound as tightly as a corkscrew."

John rolled over onto his side. "Please, no details. Just... just go. Have fun. Don't tell me about it."

"John?"

"Mm?"

The sound changed; Harry's voice was suddenly much crisper, closer. She'd taken him off of loud-speaker. "I'm glad you called me."

His response was awkward – there was no other way to react to any show of fondness from the sister he tended to not think about. They'd never really got on. This was the closest they'd ever come to any actual real semblance of sibling-related affection. "Yeah. Okay."

"Just say 'me too' and I'll leave you alone."

"...me too."

"All right. Keep me updated. You coming home for the holidays?"

Oh god. He still had to figure out where he was living next year. "Yeah, we can't stay in campus accommodation."

"Cool. I'll see you then and pump you for details. TEXT PIECROFT!"

At that, Harry disconnected the line and John was left with a small grin, a quiet beep and the sound of silence in his ear; it was not entirely unwelcome, but at the same time he suddenly found himself wishing again that he was not alone, that he had someone with him to keep him company.

Someone.

Sighing, a sound that seemed to have been on repeat all night – morning – John brought the phone away and noted with concern the exceedingly low battery, as well as three text messages. He fumbled behind his bedside table for the cable to plug his phone in, shoving it untidily into the slot and flicking through various menus to read his texts.

_Mycroft Holmes: At the risk of sounding like a common student, what are your plans for your summer break?_

_Greg: You all right, mate? Want to meet up for a drink before term ends?_

_William: I have sent you an e-mail containing study materials for the rest of term. I am referring you to another Personal Academic Tutor for next year. Please consider your number now deleted from my phone. Good luck for the future._

When John next awoke to the familiar taste of emptiness, he could not recall having thrown his phone under the desk and out of sight.

**\- X -**

_**Mycroft**   **Holmes** : Seeing as you have not yet responded to my text message in two days, not to mention the four calls following, I feel obliged as to ask after you. Are you well?_

_**Greg** : Mycroft's getting arsey with me cos I dnt know what's going on with u. Reply to 1 of us at least, pls m8?_

**\- X -**

_**Greg** : Broke it off with Loz. She rly is the biggest bitch I've ever met. Damn gd shag tho._

**\- X -**

_**Greg** : Got a date. Wanna know who with? Come 4 a pint and I'll tell u!_

_**Greg** : I know I'm not Sherlock, m8, but I am ur friend. It's been 4 days. Pls txt, u dnt have to come out._

_**Greg** : For a pint, I mean. It's cool if u wanna come out of the closet._

_**Greg** : Just come 4 a pint and pretend I'm not a total cock._

**\- X -**

_**Mycroft Holmes** : It's been almost a week since either Gregory, Sherlock or I have heard from you. Your seminar leader tells me that you haven't been to your classes. I'm well aware that you have your second counselling session tomorrow and believe me when I say that I'll be informed if you don't attend. Be aware that if you fail to do to so, I'll be sending a car. Don't do anything stupid, John._

John tapped at the screen in his hazed, sleep-induced fog, hardly comprehending what he was typing.

_Your brother wouldn't want to hear from me even if I did text him. I'll call Greg later. I'll be at my counselling session. I won't do anything stupid._

**\- X -**

_**Mycroft Holmes:**  A car will be waiting for you outside of your therapy session today. Make your excuses to your counsellor. Pack enough clothes to last you for four days at least. Joanne Harvey and your parents have been informed._

John stared at the screen in utter bewilderment.

_Where am I going?_

_**Mycroft Holmes:** If you don't know the answer to that then you're truly as ignorant as Sherlock says you are._

**\- X -**

Jim cocked his head to the side slightly, eyes wide. "Oh, well... that's disappointing. Do you mind if I ask why?"

John sat immobile in the chair opposite Dr. Moriarty's desk, his eyes dull as he avoided the intent gaze of the man waiting to hear his response. "Family emergency. Unavoidable."

"Right, I see, I'm sorry to hear that... well, I'm not going to lie to you, John, it's not an ideal situation for us to be in. If we want to see some progress we really need to try and do this within a certain time frame."

"Like I said. Unavoidable."

Jim stared at him for a few moments with his increasingly intense deep brown eyes before finally he leaned forward, his eyes still fixed wholly upon his patient. "John, I hope you don't mind me saying so, but... I can't help but wonder if perhaps you're just having second thoughts about counselling. It wouldn't be the first time, though admittedly it may well be the first time that someone's bothered to come up with a reason!" He laughed, a warm sound. "But it's my duty to you, as your assigned counsellor, to recommend that you don't walk away if you're having second thoughts. Push through. I can't impress upon you the...  _importance_  of these sessions. Of how much of difference they'll make to your life if you just persevere and  _talk_  to me."

Shifting in his seat, John found himself shaking his head. "It's not about that. There really is somewhere I have to be. Somewhere important."

The expression on Jim's face softened. "Do you want to know what I think, John?"

John didn't respond.

"I think that  _you're_  important. And that wherever this place is that you have to be, it's not  _as_  important as seeing you through this difficult time in your life."

Were he more grounded and aware of himself, perhaps John would have felt awkward at Jim's words; as it was, he simply shook his head. "I appreciate that. But I need to go. Today. Now. Can I not just... come back after the summer? Deal with this then?"

For a moment he didn't think that the counsellor would respond, so fixed and static was his gaze; it was unsettling in its intensity and John genuinely began to consider simply walking from the room, but suddenly Jim reached out and grabbed a pen at the edge of his desk, using his other hand to pull a post-it note towards him. "All right. I know what to I'm going to do."

John watched as the man scribbled away on the post-it, long and looping letters that seemed vaguely more effeminate than he had expected. Not completely dissimilar to Sherlock's own cursive. "You do?"

"Yes." Jim pulled the post-it from its place and held it out to John, a small smile on his full, pale lips. John took it. "This is my e-mail address. At the end of each day I want you to send me an e-mail telling me about your day and how you've felt. You don't have to go into great detail, you don't have to talk about anything that makes you uncomfortable, just... give me a basic idea."

John pursed his lips as he stared down at the piece of paper. "That sounds... unprofessional."

Jim laughed. "It's not my personal e-mail address, John, it's all above board. We all have ways of working with the people who come to see us – my associates would tell you much the same thing – and some work better with different people. You obviously struggle with face-to-face contact and, even if your reasons for cutting this and the other sessions short are genuine, this is just an easier way for you to communicate with me. Smaller chunks, more often. Without having to tell me to my face." He leaned back in his chair. "Plus, y'know, we all have smartphones nowadays. Wherever you're heading, I'm sure it wouldn't take too much effort to type out a little e-mail every night."

It still sounded odd. Then again, it would solve the problem. Sort of. "Right. You're sure this is... all right?"

"If I told you some of the techniques some of my colleagues have employed over the years you wouldn't think this was odd at all, trust me." Jim flashed a smile. "I can't give you the particulars of course, but... let's just say this is incredibly  _normal_  in comparison."

John's eyes looked over the e-mail address again. "All right. Once a day? Does it really have to be that often?"

"Absolutely. My thoughts, John, are that if you're not comfortable with this set-up and find that other things in life come first, we need to find a way of making it so that you're still able to benefit from the support I can offer but in a less confined, less pressured environment. And where better than from your own home? Less time spent trying to force yourself to say the right things."

John had to admit that it sounded a hell of lot better than this. "You make it sound easier than doing it this way, at least."

"It will be," Jim confirmed, nodding. "I promise you that much. Anything that I can make easier for you, John, and I'll do everything I can do make it happen." He stood, coming around the desk and offering John once last warm smile. His eyes lingered, intent, on John's. "I know you're on a tight schedule. You take care now, and make sure you don't lose that e-mail address. God only knows the chain e-mails I'd get if someone else picked this up!"

**\- X -**

The car was black, shaded windows, impossibly shiny; John stared at it for a few moments before a suited man climbed out of the drivers seat and nodded to him, smoothing his tie. "John Watson?"

"Uh, yes."

The man reached out and took the small suitcase from John's right hand, walking towards the back of the car and pulling a door open for him. "If you'd like to get comfortable, sir, I'll put this in the boot for you."

John stared, disbelieving, as the interior of the car. This man had opened the door for him. He called him sir. He was putting his suitcase in the boot for him. Just how rich  _were_  the Holmes family? "Right. Right, yes, thanks." He followed the man's gesture and climbed into the back of the leather-seated car, slipping over the material until he was somewhat comfortable and able to reach behind him to grab the seatbelt. As he pulled it across his body the man slammed the door of the boot shut and came back around, closing the door for him.

He found himself suddenly feeling incredibly out of his depth.

The driver slid into the front seat and offered him a smile in the rear-view mirror.

"Feel free to fall asleep, sir; we'll be driving for a few hours yet."


	36. Choking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: I LOVE YOU GUYS. FREAKING LOVE YOU. Wherever all of these new people are coming from, know that I adore each and every one of you and feel so, so blessed to have you here reading this crazy-slow burn of insanity. You're part of us now. YOU ARE ONE OF US.**
> 
> **Stay forever? <3**
> 
> **COMMENTS ARE SNUGGLED AND COMMENTATORS ARE HELD UP HIGH ON PEDESTALS OF PIECROFT.**

**Chapter Thirty-Six**

John did not know what concerned him more: the quaint, picturesque cottage that the driver had stopped outside of; the imposing sight of Mycroft, a kindly-looking blonde-haired woman and a man who looked disturbingly like an older version of Sherlock standing outside the recently-painted black front door; or the lack of their youngest son waiting to greet him. He stared from behind the tinted window and out to the scene in front of him – whoever had arranged the front garden clearly had a green thumb, there was a perfect array of blooming flowers, plants and bushes – and felt, not for the first time since he had climbed into the back of the car, the familiar jolt of butterflies at whatever he was about to enter into and the seemingly impossible idea that he was about to meet Sherlock's parents.

To John's complete and utter bewilderment, the presence of Mycroft was actually reassuring.

As the driver came around to open his door for him (as if he needed assistance) the woman – Mrs. Holmes – began to hurry down the path towards him, all flapping hands, flowing sleeves and a genuinely warm, welcoming smile; her husband followed her, looking down at the path as he walked with a small, fond smile of his own, the expression clearly a response to his wife's enthusiasm. John had seen that smile before upon Sherlock's own face, funnily enough in response to his own thoughts of the very same woman. He knew before he'd even slipped out of the car and into her oncoming path that he would, whether he wanted to or not, love her.

Her arms were around him and squeezing him tight before he'd even had a chance to look stand up straight.

" _So_  nice to meet you, John, I've heard  _so_  much about you from my boys -"

Mycroft began to walk towards them with an eye-roll, hands in his pockets. "No need to exaggerate, Mummy, he knows very well that you didn't even know of his existence before yesterday."

She shot him a look from under lowered lashes, pulling away from John and tutting. "I don't know, wherever did you learn those bad manners from? Certainly not me or your father." She turned once more to John, the same warm smile offered to him that she had worn before, utterly changing her; she was beautiful. He accepted and returned the smile gratefully if not a little awkwardly, about to speak before she continued. "Take no notice of Mikey, he's just hungry."

"Mikey?" The moniker escaped before he could stop it, a grin twisting his lips up as he looked towards the now death-glaring Mycroft and let his amusement show without a hint of regret. He quickly schooled his features into a more appropriate smile as he forced his attention back to Mrs. Holmes, however, a strangely powerful determination to be liked by her welling up within his chest. "Mrs. Holmes, it's so good of you to welcome me into your home at such short notice, can't thank you enough."

"Nonsense," she said with a wave of her hand, looping her arm through his and starting to pull him up through the gate and towards the house. "Any friend of Sherlock's is a friend of ours -"

"Any friend of Sherlock's is an impossibility," Mycroft muttered, still glaring at John; Mrs. Holmes tutted at him again.

"Dinner will be ready soon, so you can take that grumpy look off of your face," she admonished, quickly switching her attention to the tall man waiting halfway down the path. "Tim, get John's suitcase for him, would you?"

John quickly reached out with a firm hand, meeting Sherlock's father's eyes with as respectful a smile as he could muster. "Mr. Holmes, good to meet you."

Timothy Holmes gave him a small smile in return, grasping his hand lightly and giving it a small shake. "And you, John. Forgive my wife, she tends to get a little excitable meeting new people."

"Oh, get on with you," blustered Mrs. Holmes, nudging him with her elbow as she passed. "And don't lose his suitcase! He's a forgetful sort, my Tim," she said quietly to John as she continued to practically drag him towards the front door, "so he needs reminding every now and then not to accidentally misplace things. After all, what would you do without your suitcase?"

"You aren't wrong," John said with a polite laugh, watching with a somewhat apprehensive gaze as she fumbled with her door key; she eventually managed to get the door open, pushing the door wide and dragging John through into a beautiful kitchen, Aga stove and huge fridge-freezer amidst a myriad of country-style kitchen counters, the most amazing smells coming from the oven – John's mouth instantly began to water, his stomach growling all too loudly as it reminded him cruelly that he hadn't eaten more than a few handfuls of stale cornflakes in five days.

It did not go unnoticed. "Don't worry dear, dinner will be ready in half an hour or so – you do eat meat, don't you?" It wasn't really a question, clearly she assumed he did; even if he had been a vegetarian he wouldn't have been able to tell her to her face regardless. "Roast chicken stuffed with sage, onion and rosemary and all the trimmings. I wasn't sure what to cook as Sherlock hasn't breathed a word about you -" her eyes darted to his and suddenly widened, " – not that it's surprising, of course, he doesn't talk about anyone! I'm sure he's just being secretive as always, just like their father. I'm more of an open type myself."

John was momentarily overwhelmed. "Mm, yes… oh, yes, me too. Absolutely. It sounds wonderful, Mrs. Holmes, thank you -"

"Oh, no, you must call me Wanda," she said with a wave of her hand, bustling around and putting various pans filled with water on to boil, "no need to stand on ceremony with us. Like I said earlier, any friend of Sherlock's is a friend of ours."

He found himself hesitating, the question on the edge of his tongue. It spilled out eventually. "Is Sherlock not here?"

The quickest flash of concern, rapidly masked by another smile. "He's up in his room having a nap before dinner. Poor thing hasn't been well, though I'm sure you know that."

He nodded quickly. "Yeah, course. Course. But he will be at dinner?"

"Believe me, John," Mycroft drawled as he walked in from outside, "even if he  _is_  at dinner it won't make the slightest bit of difference. He's, shall we say,  _vocally challenged_  at the moment."

"You leave your brother alone," Wanda lectured lightly, shaking her head as she placed her hands on her hips; it sounded very much like something she said often, a natural response. "Now, Mycroft, why don't you show John up to the guest bedroom so that he can get settled in? There's an en-suite bathroom attached, dear, so you needn't worry about your privacy."

Christ. He'd never been in an en-suite bathroom in his life. "That's very kind, thank you."

"Just need Tim to bring your suitcase – Tim! Tim, where's John's suitcase?"

Mr. Holmes ambled in, looking very content indeed. "Sorry about that, I got chatting to Carl. Did you know that his daughter's expecting another baby?"

"Give him his suitcase you old fool," Wanda chastised with a fond smile, flapping at him with a dishcloth and turning to the large sink full of washing up, "and stop gossiping like an old maid. Honestly, John, he's worse than I am!"

Sherlock had been completely and utterly right: Tim and Wanda Holmes were the most ordinary, happy, open people he had ever come across in his life and he could not for the  _life_  of him figure out how two such down to earth people could have possibly raised two sons so completely different from themselves. It wasn't until he noticed Mycroft tapping his foot impatiently at the bottom of the stairs that he became aware of how intently he was staring at them both, mouth partially open as he watched their simple, easy banter. He cleared his throat quickly and reached out for his suitcase from Tim, giving him a quick smile and thanking him for his trouble before turning around to follow a very bored-looking Mycroft up to the first floor.

"Your room is right at the end," he said in his classic monotone, not even looking at John as he spoke. "I'm sure you'll find everything you need already set out for you – towels and such."

John stared at the door. "Right. Thanks." He forced himself to take a step towards it, legs stiff as his mind raced and he wondered which of the three doors he was currently passing belonged to Sherlock. "I'll, uh… come down once I've settled in."

"No rush," Mycroft said, turning on his heel and making his way to the opposite end of the hallway, "unless you particularly want to be interrogated by our mother as to the nature of yours and Sherlock's… friendship."

_Don't rise to it, just keep walking_ …he forced his legs to keep moving, reaching the door with a deep exhale of breath and twisting the doorknob until the door released itself; he pushed it open gently, slipping inside and taking hesitant steps into the centre of the room and waiting until he'd set his suitcase down before he allowed himself a proper look at where he was to stay for… well. However long Mycroft was planning on holding him hostage.

It was a lovely room. On the left wall as he walked in there was a dark oak double bed furnished with throws, cushions and bedding in varying shades of deep green and brown, pillows plumped and ready for his head to sink into later that evening; on the wall directly opposite him there was a cottage-style window that somehow managed to let in a lot of light considering its size, edged either side with curtains that seemed to match the bedding perfectly. At the end of the bed was a huge wooden chest – he would fight his curiosity, it wasn't his house to snoop around! - and on the wall opposite the bed there was a door which no doubt led to the en-suite bathroom. Behind the door there was a large set of wooden drawers the exact shade of oak as the bed, on top of which lay a pile of fresh cream towels and decorated with a few candles that looked as if they'd never been touched, let alone lit.

All in all, the room was beautiful. Perfect, even. John felt dirty just standing there, a ragamuffin in his tatty old jeans and a rumpled t-shirt.

He craved a shower.

Unsure as to whether he was supposed to put his clothes away in the drawers or not, he zipped open his little suitcase and took out the few toiletries he'd brought along with him, cautiously entering the en-suite and trying not to feel too much like a pauper amidst the shining white porcelain suite within – the shower was a veritable beast, the cubicle surely big enough for two people, so many buttons and settings on its power system that he felt, not for the first time since he had arrived, daunted. Never before in his life had John felt so exceedingly common, and if it were to ever happen – not that it would if Sherlock truly was intent on ending their friendship – he knew that inviting Sherlock to his home would be incredibly embarrassing and he'd feel almost ashamed to show him his small, unimpressive home and his simple, dull life.

John pushed aside these thoughts; it wouldn't do him any good to dwell on it when it was unlikely to ever happen. Instead he splashed some warm water onto his face, rubbing it hard with a towel before refreshing his deodorant and changing his t-shirt to the white shirt he'd hurriedly packed at the last minute; on top of this he put the grey jumper he had worn to Sherlock's the last night he'd seen him. It smelled vaguely of the beef bourguignon he'd been cooking that night but hopefully with the smells of Wanda's chicken it wouldn't be noticeable.

A light knock on the door interrupted his self-conscious staring in the bathroom mirror – why wasn't his hair lying flat?! - and made his stomach jolt awkwardly beneath the layers of this clothes; what if it was Sherlock? Did he even know that John was here? Would he be secretly pleased? He forced these thoughts away as he barrelled out of the bathroom and strode towards the door, hand wrapping itself around the doorknob and twisting it, pulling it open with a thrill of apprehension -

Mycroft stared down at him, lip curling as he looked John up and down and acknowledged the fact that John had changed his clothes. "Mother would like to know whether you'd like white or red wine with dinner."

"Er..." John reached behind his ear and gave it a little scratch. "White? White goes better with chicken, right?"

The smirk upon Mycroft's face deepened. "This isn't a test, John, you don't need to try and impress anyone."

"Yeah, well, right now I feel so out of place I'm pretty sure impressing your parents is out of the question." He looked away from the eldest Holmes brother, fingers playing with the hem of his jumper. "Should I come down?"

Mycroft stared at him for a moment. "I was rather hoping we could have a... chat."

John looked up, staring right back. "A chat? You don't chat."

"I thought it would be prudent to speak with you before you see Sherlock. To... prepare you."

Jaw locking and leaning back slightly, John found his arms rising to fold over his chest – defensive, unwilling. "Right. It's that bad, is it?"

"I'm sure I don't need to tell you that he is absolutely furious at me for inviting you here – he was rather explicit." Mycroft couldn't seem to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. "Needless to say he was rather dramatic about the whole thing but, I suppose, under the circumstances it's not too surprising."

"So he doesn't want me here. I'm not exactly shocked."

"You need to be aware of his current mental state, John," Mycroft pressed, eyes darkening in his obvious concern, "it's not as simple as either you or I could hope. It's not simply a case of being rejected -"

"I didn't reject him," John interrupted quietly, arms falling to his sides as his fists curled, "not once did I infer to him that I didn't return his feelings."

"From what Sherlock has said to me it sounds as if you were rather particular in your phrasing upon your confrontation in Greenwich Park; there was no mention of considering alternatives to your, ah,  _friendship_."

John glanced away. "At the time it wasn't really something I'd considered. I was more concerned about how  _he_  was feeling than what my head was doing."

An eyebrow rose; Mycroft looked as close to surprised as his stern face was capable of. "Are you trying to communicate to me that you do, in fact, return them? Have you had an  _epiphany_  in your distance?"

John glanced away. "No. No, I'm not saying one way or another. But I've... allowed myself... to think about it. About how I might feel."

"And?"

"And..." John sighed, suddenly wishing he had just let Mycroft carry on talking about how bad the situation was. "I don't know, Mycroft, it's complicated. He's my best friend. I don't really know how to differentiate between the feelings I have and the feelings  _he_  has and all this pressure from all sides to figure it out isn't exactly helping. What's important to me right now, as it was before, is that he's all right and understands that no matter what way this goes I'll still be here."

Mycroft was eyeing him closely, reading him just as fluently as his brother would have. "I can't pretend I understand what either one of you is currently experiencing but I can see that it's perhaps more difficult for you than you're letting on."

John pursed his lips, maintaining his steady gaze. "Like I said. Unimportant."

"Well, if that's how you wish to be -"

"It is."

Mycroft straightened up slightly; he was not oblivious to how guarded John had become, yet clearly he still wanted to press the matter – to John's relief, he did not. "Then one more word of warning: Sherlock does not want you to be here. He is... delicate. Do not expect a warm welcome."

John forced a shrug, feigning nonchalance despite knowing that Mycroft would not be taken in by it. "Good thing I'm wearing a jumper, then."

**\- X -**

The dining room was beautiful, simple, cosy; the wooden table looked as if it were hand-cut, crafted purely for the sake of it being in this room, the chairs almost mismatched but fitting in perfectly with the genuinely comforting aspect of not just the dining room but the entire house in general. Every room that John had seen so far seemed to have an over-abundance of objects within them, but rather than feel cluttered it just felt... well. Homey. Like the sort of home he couldn't help but never, ever want to leave.

He settled down in the seat he was guided to by Wanda, still all flapping hands and warmth, noting with some concern that he was sitting next to an empty chair; worse, a chair that was clearly waiting to be filled. He watched in quiet panic as Mycroft settled in the chair opposite him, Mr. Holmes walking to the head of the table and sitting down with a smile and a gentle comment on how wonderful everything looked – and it did. It looked magnificent. The chicken was golden, potatoes crisp, vegetables steaming and vibrant; better yet there was a huge gravy boat full of the thickest gravy John had ever seen in his life. It looked... amazing.

"Mrs. Holmes -"

"Wanda, dear!"

"Wanda, yes... this looks wonderful. You really didn't have to go to so much trouble."

"Nonsense," she said with a wave of her hand, pouring white wine into her husbands glass, "I  _adore_  cooking, not to mention this lot have been on at me to do a proper roast for the last few weeks. I tend not to do them when the weather gets a little warmer but, as it's a special occasion..." She glanced up at him and gave him a big smile. "Sherlock should be here soon – Mycroft, did you tell your brother that dinner was ready?"

"Yes Mummy," Mycroft said, sounding very bored indeed. "He informed me that he was getting changed into something more appropriate." He glanced at John. "He's been in his dressing gown since the moment he arrived -"

"When I have nowhere to be it hardly seems necessary to clothe myself as you deem appropriate, Mycroft," a deep voice said from the archway leading from the dining room into the kitchen, causing John's stomach to do an odd sort of skip; he found he could not look towards the voice, instead focusing intently on the tureens of food in front of him. "Not all of us feel it necessary to wear suits all day, every day."

"Ah, Sherlock – did you nap well?" Wanda was beaming at her youngest.

John allowed himself to look at the young man from the corner of his eye; he was dressed in a deep purple shirt and his usually black trousers, hair damp. He looked younger, somehow.

"For the most part." Sherlock made to sit down next to Mycroft. "Though I would appreciate it if next time those who decide to have conversations upstairs would perhaps have the decency to keep their voices down -"

"No, dear, you're next to John. See? You're the only one drinking red tonight."

All pairs of eyes drifted to the empty seat next to John; John tried to keep his face neutral.

Sherlock did not move. "I would rather sit here, Mother, if that's quite all right with you."

"Nonsense!" Wanda looked up and at Sherlock, then John, then back to Sherlock again. "Surely you want to sit next to your friend?"

"He's not -"

"Stop harassing him, Wanda, and sit down next to John. At least this way they can at least see each other." Tim gave John what he clearly thought was a reassuring smile. "From what I've heard it's quite rare for these two to be out of each other's sight!"

_Oh, god._  "Wanda, is there anything else that needs doing? Can I give you a hand pouring the wine?" He was determined not to look at Sherlock, determined not to invite even more awkwardness than the blatant elephant in the room already was. He started to stand. "I can -"

"You sit down, you're a guest!" She practically ran around to his side of the table, using the wine bottle to nudge him back into his seat. "There, that's better – a whole glass for you, dear, or just half?"

"Half is fine," he said quickly, knowing how rapidly wine affected him and not wanting to embarrass himself. "Thank you."

As Mrs. Holmes sat down next to him and proceeded to pour both him and herself a glass of wine, Mr. Holmes leaned forward and started to spoon some peas onto his plate; Mycroft did the same with the cauliflower, Sherlock reluctantly reaching out with a large fork to pierce some already carved chicken and slipping it onto the edge of his plate. Instantly the sounds of cutlery against china and the clinking of glasses filled the room, a comforting sort of hush falling over them as they filled their plates and sipped at their wine. Eventually Mycroft broke the silence.

"So, Mummy – are we expected to attend the village ball on Friday?"

John was almost sure he'd misheard.  _Ball?_

"Of course," she clarified brightly, pouring gravy over her vegetables, "they'd send out a search party if we didn't! John, dear," she turned to him slightly, handing him the gravy boat, "you'll come too, won't you?"

John almost choked on his chicken. "Sorry, sorry -" Tim quickly handed him a napkin and a glass of water that seemed to have materialised from nowhere, " - thank you. Sorry. No, I'm fine, it's all right – what's the village ball?"

"Oh, it's all good fun," Mr. Holmes said contentedly, raising his glass to his lips and taking a sip, "everyone in the village gets together at the village hall, has a dance, listens to some live music, it's the social event of the season."

It sounded like something out of an Austen novel. Wanda was nodding enthusiastically as she cut into a potato.

"It really is a wonderful night. There's usually a band of sorts, jazz or classical, sometimes both; everyone dresses up, all the ladies in their evening dresses and the men in tuxes -"

"It's terribly tedious," Mycroft interrupted with an eye-roll, leaning over Sherlock to pick up the tureen of peas. "Yet we're expected to do it every year, heaven forbid we miss it."

"Ignore him," Wanda advised a currently slightly overwhelmed John. "It's wonderful. You'll absolutely have to join us."

Mycroft was suddenly smirking. "Oh, well, yes – he couldn't possibly miss it, not  _this_  year of all years."

Sherlock's eyes flitted to Mycroft, murderous.

Wanda, however, looked delighted. "Oh, goodness, of course! Sherlock, you would have let me forget, wouldn't you? You  _did_  promise Henry that you'd do it this year, after missing last year."

"Really, Mother, isn't it enough that I'm going?" He did not look happy in the slightest as he stabbed a piece of chicken with his fork. "I don't see why it's necessary -"

"Nonsense, you're a village celebrity!" Whatever they were talking about it was clear that Wanda Holmes was not going to let it go without a fight. "They were  _so_  disappointed when you couldn't perform last year."

At that, John raised his head and found himself staring for the first time at Sherlock; the genius avoided his eyeline completely, but that didn't stop John from feeling like he was holding a live wire and all too close to being shocked. He heard the raucous laughter of Harry in his head and violently kicked at it. "Perform? You're going to perform?"

Sherlock did not look at him, nor did he answer. Wanda did it for him.

"Oh, yes, Sherlock performs every year! Mycroft too, sometimes!"

"Please, Mummy, don't bring me into this," Mycroft grumbled with a sigh, meeting John's eyes with a 'don't you dare mention this revelation to me in public' look, "I haven't played the piano for at least two years, I've practically forgotten."

Tim was shaking his head, chewing thoughtfully. "Those sorts of things you don't forget, it's muscle-memory. Do you play an instrument, John?"

He had never felt so under-qualified to be sitting at a table in all his life. "Er, no. No, I'm not even slightly musical -"

"Don't listen to him, he hums up a storm when he thinks no one's listening."

John's eyes flew back to Sherlock's, shocked; the dark-haired teenager was staring right back, a momentary flash of surprise in his own silvery eyes as he realised he had not only referred to John at a time when he was clearly trying to feign knowledge of his presence but had done so in what could only be defined as passively fond tones. Sherlock quickly tore his gaze away, adding without missing a beat:

"He's tone deaf, though, so it's hardly a pleasant experience."

Wanda tutted at him. "Don't be so rude, Sherlock. Do you sing in a choir, John?"

He found himself choking again, this time on a pea. "Oh – oh, christ, no. No. I really can't sing, Mrs. Holm- Wanda, I couldn't sing a straight tune to save my life."

"Perhaps you're not suited for the straight life," Mycroft mused quietly from across the table, taking a calm sip of his wine; John felt as if the pea were still lodged in his throat. Tim passed him another napkin.

"Thank you – sorry, I don't know what's wrong with me -"

"You could fill a Bible," Sherlock muttered unnecessarily. John decided he wasn't going to look at Sherlock for the rest of the evening.

Wanda took control over the conversation, clearly sensing some tension. "So, John, yes – the village ball, you really should come. Have you ever heard Sherlock play his violin before?"

Images of Sherlock holding his violin in the dining room flooded his mind. "No. No, he hasn't. I didn't even know he played until last week."

" _Pardon_?" Wanda practically shrieked the word, so incensed as she was. "Sherlock, you didn't tell John you played?" She didn't give him a chance to speak. "Oh,  _well_ , he's been playing since he was a child, you've never heard anything like it."

Clearly she  _adored_  her youngest son. "I'm sure he's very talented."

"He is," she said confidentially, leaning over to top up his near-empty glass (god, he really did drink when he was nervous) until it was practically to the brim, "he  _is_  and now you'll get to hear him at the village ball!" Her face was practically splitting in two she looked so happy.

But there was a problem that none of them had considered. No one but John, of course. "It sounds lovely, really, but I um... well. I don't have a tux with me. I don't even  _own_  one."

"Oh, that's not a problem – I'm sure we can find something for you." Wanda's determination was terrifying.

"Yes, that's... I'm not exactly  _tall_."

Every pair of eyes was suddenly on him, sizing him up: so  _this_  is what it felt like to be a door-mouse surrounded by gazelles.

Sherlock spoke, his tone mocking. "I'm sure one of your dresses could be altered, Mother. How about that muted blue one you wore two years ago? It'd go perfectly with John's eyes."

It didn't make a damned bit of difference that Sherlock was mocking him; the allusion that he had stared into John's eyes often enough to know their colour was too intimate. No one else noticed, naturally – Wanda set to waving her hand at Sherlock and telling him not to be rude, Tim chuckling lightly and mumbling something about liking that dress, Mycroft... well, smirking – but John found himself yet again with his eyes zipping up to rest on Sherlock's suddenly taut face, his apparently 'muted blue' eyes unable to look away as the very slightest flush coloured the skin around his friend's razor-sharp cheekbones.

He looked away. "As much as I'd love to wear what I'm sure is a beautiful dress, I really don't think your friends would react kindly to me wearing something they've already seen. Maybe something in mauve?"

Wanda and Tim both laughed, the former pink-cheeked and clearly in high spirits. "Well, we'll just have to take you into the village and see what we can rustle up for you."

Again, John felt hideously embarrassed. "I'm not sure I can afford -"

"Don't be silly, we'll just hire out a nice one for you!"

"No, really, you don't have to do that -"

"Of course we do," she argued, shaking her head and clearly closing the topic of conversation, "and that's that. We can head into the village tomorrow."

Leaning over to grab the bottle of wine, Tim gave John a small smile, noting his need to be rescued from his enthusiastic wife. "So, John, Mycroft tells us you're studying to be a doctor?"

John nodded his thanks, putting down his knife and fork and reaching out for his glass. "I'm in my pre-medical year at the moment, doing modules in Biology, Chemistry and Physics. I did completely useless subjects for A Level so I've got a bit of catching up to do."

"I think it's fantastic," Wanda said warmly, eyes flashing up to offer him her trademark smile, "to be willing to put in the work for such a worthwhile career. Your parents must be very proud."

"Mum's thrilled. Can't stop talking about it, constantly reminding the neighbours."

Wanda and Tim exchanged a look. "And... your father?"

John did not miss a beat, not wanting to make the dinner awkward – well, more awkward than it already was. He did not look over to the cause of the awkwardness, instead taking another sip of the crisp white wine and shaking his head. "Oh, well, I'm sure Dad's proud too -"

"John's father is a relapsing alcoholic," Sherlock cut across him bluntly, "so I doubt he thinks much of anything about it."

Three pairs of eyes flickered to the youngest Holmes, shock crossing both Wanda and Tim's expressions and mere exasperation spasming on Mycroft's at the words so briskly uttered; John continued to eat as if Sherlock had not just revealed a hugely personal piece of information to his perfect parents at a time when it was highly, devastatingly inappropriate, trying to force down a mouthful of chicken and cauliflower so that he could speak. "Mm, excuse me – yes, Dad struggles with alcoholism," he verified, still refusing to look at the young man who was supposed to be – in his eyes at least – his friend, if only so his anger could remain subdued enough to continue this conversation, "but he's going to group sessions and working through it. I'm sure once he's back with us properly he'll be able to vocalise how he feels about my career choice."

The awkward silence that met his words was broken by Wanda, seemingly determined to smooth things over. "Well. We all have our trials, don't we? No one's exempt, there's always something going on close to home -"

"Oh, goodie, absolutely - let's talk about my heroin addiction," Sherlock interrupted sarcastically, rolling his eyes and leaning back in his chair. "Remember when I overdosed and had to be hospitalised? Or how about when I failed all of my exams at Brookling Manor? Oho, isn't it fun to take trips down memory lane? That coma, that was a real bunch of laughs!"

John's jaw tensed, hardly believing what he was hearing.

"Sherlock," Mycroft warned, eyeing his brother over the edge of his wine glass, "enough."

"Couldn't agree more," Sherlock said in agreement, pushing his chair back and standing, "may I be excused? I've rather lost my appetite."

"No, sit down," Wanda said in a shaky voice, enthusiasm suddenly sucked dry and her hand trembling slightly as she put her wine glass on the tabletop. "Please, Sherlock. It's our first dinner as a family since you got home."

"Apologise to your mother," Tim ordered quietly, his own eyes on his wife rather than his youngest son. "And do as she says. Sit down."

There was moment of hollow quiet as every person in the room waited, silent and still other than John who picked up his wine glass again and took a few sips in order to keep himself from saying something he would regret; slowly Sherlock lowered himself back into his chair and turned his head slightly towards Mrs. Holmes, meeting her eyes at the last moment. "I'm sorry, Mother. That was insensitive of me."

The tone of Sherlock's voice was almost overwhelmingly similar; John found himself gripping his wine glass a little tighter as he recognised it from just under a week ago, the same timbre and gentleness that he had heard as he had received his own apology from the curly-haired genius. He fought the urge to look at him, powerful as it was.

"Apology accepted," she said with a forced smile, glancing sideways at John – he realised that she was probably hideously unaware that he knew of Sherlock's habit and was now incredibly embarrassed; he suddenly wanted to hug and reassure her, the wine probably partly responsible for the influx of warm feelings towards her. "What I was going to say was that my sister developed a rather strong liking of the painkillers she got after a back injury from falling from a horse. It very nearly became a problem."

There was a very awkward silence, but John was too distracted at the idea that Mrs. Holmes was so determined to show him that she wasn't judging him or his family that she would tell him something so very personal to her  _own_  family; he reached over without thinking, resting his hand on top of hers for a moment. He didn't miss Sherlock's eyes narrowing in his periphery, nor the way he stared at the easy contact as if something was on fire.

"It's difficult, but you can get through anything with a good support network." John wasn't just trying to reassure the woman; he was directing his words very much towards the man on the opposite side of the table to him. "That's what family and friends are for."

Wanda turned her head slightly and offered him a wavering smile. "Yes. Yes, I couldn't agree more."

Sherlock looked away from the two of them, eyes still narrowed.

"Well!" Tim placed his knife and fork neatly on the edge of his plate, leaning back in his chair and offering the room a smile of pure contentment. "I don't think I could possibly manage dessert for at least another half an hour after that feast!"

**\- X -**

When the knock came to John's door as he began to climb into bed, he was half-expecting it.

"Come in."

A moment of hesitation before the doorknob turned, the door slowly swinging open as John stood by the bed with his hand resting on the duvet cover that he'd been in the process of pulling back; he tried to suppress the sudden surge of something disturbingly powerful welling up in his abdomen as he saw Sherlock standing there on the threshold, still wearing his clothes from dinner.

The young man took a small step into the room.

John forced himself to look at him. "What's up?"

Sherlock did not meet his eyes; John couldn't blame him. The intensity in the room had rocketed within seconds. "I felt it would be appropriate to... apologise for my behaviour at dinner."

John's eyes shifted away for a moment, his head spinning. "Come in properly, then. Close the door."

"No," Sherlock said quietly, "I can't do that."

Exasperation replaced the unidentified emotion in his chest. "Fine. Fine. Apology accepted, then."

"John -"

"It's fine, Sherlock, you've apologised and I've accepted. You can leave now."

Sherlock finally brought his gaze up to meet John's, though the reluctance behind it was obvious. John could barely stand to look at it.

The silence stretched between them until it was painful.

"So." John pulled the duvet cover across the bed and looked pointedly at the door. "Goodnight, then."

Sherlock did not return the sentiment. He turned on his heel and walked out of the room, hand reaching out and closing the door quietly behind him as he left John to the tension left behind.

Two hours later and John found, for the first time in five days, that he could not sleep.


	37. Heaven Knows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: Two chapters in one night - muahahahaha!! Just a little one to keep you going until tomorrow.**

**Chapter Thirty-Seven**

He didn't sleep.

He  _couldn't_  sleep.

Finally, at six o'clock, he gave up.

Knowing as he did that it was completely inappropriate to do so, John could not fight the urge to simply get dressed and leave his room; the bed was just too judgemental, staring at him in consternation as he pulled on his jeans and a clean white t-shirt, throwing the grey jumper on over the top and glaring right back at the badly-made bed before turning and slipping out of the door as quietly as he could. He navigated the hallway without too much fuss, creeping over to the stairs and holding his breath as he descended them as slowly as he possibly could – this evidently turned out to be a mistake, every single stair creaking and alerting his pathway to the entire house no matter how gently he placed his heel to the wood beneath them. He cursed quietly as he hopped over the last step and landed quietly on the balls of his feet, forgetting that there were wooden floors all throughout the house and almost slipping over; he grabbed the banister and prayed for dear life that he wouldn't fall, gritting his teeth and feeling relief wash over him as he managed to pull himself upright.

He wandered into the kitchen, wondering if it would be simply too assuming of him to make himself a cup of tea – he decided that, yes, that would be absolutely inappropriate and would probably make far too much noise anyway. Instead he turned his attention to the huge pile of washing up sitting on the draining board, his fingers itching as he edged towards the dishcloth and padded over to the mess of pots and pans with a fierce resolution that he should do  _something_  to show his appreciation for their letting him stay; they'd been so kind to him so far, with no real necessity for it. They didn't know him from Adam yet they'd welcomed him so warmly and with such an amazing feast... he had to prove his gratitude somehow, and this was as good a start as any. It took him over twenty minutes to dry everything up and leave it in neat piles on the sparklingly clean countertop; he had decided from the beginning that he didn't want to risk putting it in the wrong place or, worse, dropping one of the heavy pans to the floor and waking up the entire house in doing so, so he settled for lining it up in size order before stepping back to admire his work -

The creak of stairs behind him alerted him to the fact that he was no longer the only one awake, whirling around with an apology on his lips.

"I'm so sorry if I woke you."

Wanda shook her head with a smile as she walked into the kitchen already dressed, raising her hands to deflect his words. "You didn't, John, don't worry. Tim and I always get up early in the morning and go for a walk. Did you sleep all right?"

He lied through his teeth, feeling no guilt whatsoever in doing so. "Like a baby - I think it's the most comfortable bed I've ever slept in!"

"I'm so relieved, it's a new bed, you're the first to sleep in it! But look at this – Tim, look at this!" Her husband was making his slow, quiet way down the stairs, offering John a small smile and nod as he wandered to stand beside his wife; he slid his arm around her waist without even hesitating. "You didn't need to do the drying up, John, you're a g-"

"I know I'm a guest," he quickly cut in, shoving his hands awkwardly into his pockets, "but you've been so kind to me, I had to do something to repay you somehow. This doesn't even come close, but... it's the only thing I could think of."

"Should've made a cup of tea," Tim joked as he relinquished his grip on Wanda, walking around John and picking up a pan and a stack of plates, starting to put them away, "Wanda would've adopted you on the spot!"

Whacking Mr. Holmes playfully on the arm, Wanda shook her head. "Always teasing me, just like his sons, they're all as bad as each other – speaking of which, what are yours and Sherlock's plans for today?"

Ah. Damn. "Well, we haven't actually  _made_  any as of yet, and I don't want to disturb him whilst he's still unwell..."

"Well, would you like to come for a walk with Tim and I?" She seemed as if she genuinely meant it, her eyebrows raised as she pointed to the door leading out to the pathway. "I warn you, we do like a long one, but if you feel like a good old wander...?"

John hesitated, unsure of his place. "Well, I mean... if you wouldn't mind me tagging along..."

"Not at all," Tim said, closing a cupboard and turning to face the two of them. "No doubt she'd love to pick your brains a little more, she barely scratched the surface last night -"

"You make me sound like I was interrogating him!"

He loved their banter. Absolutely loved it. To his surprise he realised it reminded him of his and Sherlock's back-and-forth whilst cooking, though perhaps not  _quite_  so domesticated. "No, I'd love to come with you, explore the area a bit. And as long as you don't shine a spotlight in my eyes you can ask me anything you like."

**\- X -**

Wanda took him for his word. They'd filled about half an hour with mindless chitchat, Tim telling him random bits of information about the area, commenting on the houses they passed and somehow being able to spout every name and add a little factoid about each person as he reeled them off; Wanda rolled her eyes every few minutes and shook her head at John, though he never once took it to mean that she was actually bothered by it. The truth was that he was sort of fixated on their relationship, unable to stop a small grin spreading on his face as they verbally sparred in the sweetest, gentlest way he'd ever experienced and somehow feeling, not that he was outside of their sphere, but that he was somehow involved in their little jokes. It was refreshing. He was undeniably glad that he'd come with them.

That, of course, was shortly before the questions began.

"So, John!" They were making their way over a stile, John hopping over easily and waiting as Tim helped Wanda. She landed beside them and blew a strand of hair from her lips, barely stopping for breath as she began to walk again. "Seeing as everything we've learned about you so far came from Mycroft, I have to ask – how did you and Sherlock meet?"

Either he would have to be painfully honest or he'd have to lie; he wasn't sure which he would rather do. "Did Mycroft not explain?"

"Oh, well, you know Mycroft. He wasn't very forthcoming with any details."

John nodded, hesitating as his mind raced over what he could reasonably say and what he could omit without seeming as if he were hiding something. He decided to compromise. "Well, I was struggling with my workload and so my course leader passed on my name to him and... yeah. That's about it, really." He forced a laugh, not wanting to come across as unwilling but not sure how much more he should say. "He ended up being a godsend and we ended up being friends."

"He's so intelligent," Wanda said somewhat wistfully, shaking her head back and forth as she took a giant step over a puddle, "just like his brother. I have no idea where they it from."

"She'll have you believe she's a dolt like me, but what she's not telling you is that she's a certified genius," Tim said good-naturedly, coming up on John's other side. "A mathematician!"

"Oh, you -"

"Sherlock mentioned it, actually," John said with a grin, despite knowing it had actually been Greg. "He sounded very proud."

Wanda shot him a look. "Now, John, don't you lie to me, I can always tell! I know he thinks I'm no better than anyone else, even if technically I do have the IQ of a genius..."

"No, really," he insisted, "it was actually quite touching. It's obvious he adores you."

He took a fierce satisfaction from knowing just how much it would irritate Sherlock to know what he was saying.

Wanda's cheeks were rather flushed. "Oh, well..."

"So if you spend as much time at Sherlock's house as Mycroft says you do then you must know Greg Lestrade?" Tim had his phone out in front of him suddenly, flicking through various screens until he'd pulled up a photo; he passed the phone to John, who found himself looking at a photograph of Greg, a girl quite a few years younger than him and two people who could only be his parents. "Good lad, Greg. Fantastic hockey player."

John couldn't agree more, with the 'good lad' part at least. "He's a good mate, really nice guy. Sherlock's lucky to have a housemate like him."

"From the way Mycroft's been talking it sounds as if you'll be joining them soon!" Wanda's eyes were curious – oh, she had so many questions. John could see it burning like a fire within her. It made him nervous. "Sounds like you three are quite the little friendship group!"

John found himself wondering with some intensity just what else Mycroft had been saying. "It is good fun spending time with them both. We've cooked some wicked dinners."

Mrs. Holmes stared at him in amazement. "I'm sorry, did you just say that my son has  _cooked_? A meal? An edible meal?"

"Oh yeah," John enthused, purposefully not explaining that Sherlock was better at complaining that he was bored of waiting for it to be ready than actually being helpful, "pesto chicken, lasagne, shepherds pie, you name it. He's quite the chef, with a little help!"

"Did you hear that, Tim?"

"Yes dear."

"I'll have to have some proof of this magical skill in the kitchen before he goes back in September," she mused, winding her way around a bush of berries and idly plucking one off to pop into her mouth. "You'll have to help me convince him though, John, I imagine I'll need your input!"

John wasn't sure he could convince Sherlock much of anything at the moment. "Not sure I'll be very influential, Wanda, I won't lie to you."

She wasn't having any of it. "Nonsense. You're his friend, of course he'll listen to you. Mikey's already told us what you did with him in regards to his... well. His problem."

So she  _did_  know that John was aware of Sherlock's wavering addiction. "He seems to have told you lot in a very short space of time."

"Oh, no, he told us about  _that_  a month or so ago." She was nodding even as she seemed to think it over. "Yes, that's about right, isn't it Tim? End of April?"

John was intensely confused. "I was under the impression that you didn't know I existed until two days ago."

Tim dropped himself gently into the conversation. "Well, he never put a name to you, just referred to you as 'exhibit A'." When John didn't laugh, he smiled apologetically. "Sorry, I'm not a man of humour, Wanda will tell you. He didn't give you a name, just mentioned a friend who was keeping an eye on him."

"Naturally we put two and two together when Mycroft asked us if you could come and stay. I hope you're not upset that he told us about you?" Wanda seemed genuinely concerned. "He was very complimentary, or at least complimentary in his own way..."

"No, no, it's absolutely fine – I'm glad you knew something about me before I got here, it would've been very awkward to turn up without you even knowing my name." He could only manage a small smile. "Clearly Sherlock wasn't ever going to tell you about me."

Wanda shared a look with her husband. "Well... we did  _wonder_  why he didn't bring you up. You're obviously a very nice young man who, despite his terrible manners last night, seems to have a lot of...  _affection_  for you -"

"Sherlock's not the sort to have friends, you see," Tim informed him, though it was fairly obvious from the novelty of his arrival that it was an unnecessary statement to make. "Neither of them are. You're the first person we've ever been introduced to."

John frowned. "What, ever? He didn't have any friends at junior school?"

"Not a single one. Well, he had that boy at boarding school -"

"No," Wanda interrupted her husband, suddenly looking like a lioness in all her trembling ferocity, "I won't have you utter his name, Tim, certainly not when referring to Sherlock's friends. He was never a friend to him."

Tim reached out and took his wife's hand. "Sorry, dear. You know I didn't mean to upset you."

John said nothing, knowing as he did that they were referring to Peter – Sherlock's gateway into opiates. He took it upon himself to take control of the conversation, feeling partly responsible for no good reason other than his own discomfort. "Well, like you said, Sherlock's secretive. And it's an unfamiliar situation for him to be in. He probably didn't know what to say about me, or how to bring it up."

Tim offered him a grateful smile; Wanda allowed herself to be distracted. "Well, we know about you now. The two of you are obviously very close."

"He's the best friend I've ever had," he said honestly, shrugging as if it was of little consequence. "I'm lucky to know him."

It was absolutely the right thing to say; Mrs. Holmes' face lit up with a giant beam. "Oh, you are sweet. He's lucky to have you too, John. Heavens knows where he'd be if he didn't have you."

John said nothing.

**\- X -**

The tuxedo fitting was... odd, to say the least. The shop was tiny, boutique almost, made worse by the fact that both Mycroft  _and_  Sherlock had decided (or more likely been coerced by their mother) to come along; luckily Sherlock muttered about needing to go to the Post Office, slinking out of the little shop and down what could barely count as a high street without even a word of farewell and leaving John feeling an odd mixture of relieved and disappointed as he watched his friend walk away. He didn't have long to dwell over it, however, as Wanda soon took charge and demanded to see the shopkeeper's range of waistcoats.

_Waistcoats._  He'd never worn a waistcoat in his life.

As if stripping down to his underwear in the middle of the shop wasn't uncomfortable enough – because a shop that small couldn't even fit a  _curtain_  into its cramped corners to protect his modesty – he had to somehow resign himself to Mycroft smirking behind his back as Mrs. Holmes darted back and forth with various jackets and bow ties, holding them up against John's bare skin and proclaiming them to either be too dark, too bright or too pale. Tim seemed content just to nod and agree with his wife's analysis, looking around himself with mild interest as if he'd never been to such a place; John wasn't a fool, he knew that Tim was merely trying to give him some semblance of privacy. Even if Wanda seemed determined to treat him like a third son, completely non-perturbed in the sight of his faded boxer shorts, Tim seemed at least to understand just how gut-wrenchingly awkward John was feeling. Mycroft naturally just worked to heighten his discomfort, commenting on how Sherlock wouldn't like certain cravats and colours, making a point to twist his face in disgust and say in deep, mocking tones, "oh no, he'd  _despise_  that on John" or "we don't want Sherlock to think John looks  _ugly_ , do we?" - luckily Tim was too busy pretending to be interested in buttonholes and Wanda too focused on finding the perfect tuxedo to notice, but John was positively fuming by the time they'd finally found a combination of colours and styles to suit him.

In the end they –  _they_  being Wanda and a vaguely agreeable Tim – chose a charcoal grey tuxedo jacket and trouser ensemble with a silvery tie and grey/silver waistcoat; Wanda was so complimentary as he turned in a reluctant circle for her that he actually started to feel good about it, catching his reflection in the misted mirror and finding himself genuinely surprised at just how much it suited him. On his third turn – spurred on shamefully by Wanda's constant remarks on how handsome he looked – his eyes glanced out of the window and found themselves meeting the icy, narrowed gaze of the young man who was now holding a brown envelope to his chest and staring intently at the scene separated only by glass in front of him; Sherlock was watching him with all the intensity of a hawk watching its prey, and for a moment John could focus on nothing more than the sheer fervour behind the gaze. It made his spine tingle.

A gentle prod to his shoulder jerked him back to the room, his head whipping around to face a very smug looking Wanda.

"You wait, dear, all of the women will be falling over themselves to dance with you. We'll take this one, then, Franco."

Franco – the shopkeeper – nodded, advancing upon John to take his measurements.

When John turned to look back out of the window, Sherlock was gone.


	38. Oh, My

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: Another itty bitty one for you, my lovelies. Gotta lay the foundations before the BIG-ASS BALL WHICH I CANNOT WAIT TO START WRITING!!!!**

**Chapter Thirty-Eight**

John realised later that evening, as he sat in the conservatory with Wanda ironing and humming along to the radio and the rain making quite a cacophony on the roof above them, that he hadn't yet e-mailed Dr. Moriarty; he cursed quietly to himself, not just at the fact that he'd forgotten but that he had to do it at  _all_. It was with some reluctance that he pulled his phone from his pocket.

"Wanda?"

"Mm?" She paused in her humming, looking over at him with a smile. "Yes, dear?"

"Do you have WiFi here?"

"Oh, of course – Tim knows the code, Tim? TIM?"

Mr. Holmes ambled into the room, holding a newspaper and wearing a pair of glasses that were so odd to see on the face of a man that looked so much like his son that for a moment John could only stare; christ, he looked so much like Sherlock. In glasses. "Did you burn one of my shirts again?"

She glared at him. "That was ten years ago, Tim!"

He smiled gently, sending a wink down in John's direction. "She's a menace with an iron. Don't let her touch anything of yours."

John grinned back, almost embarrassingly thrilled to be a part of their banter again. "Noted."

"Take no notice of him, John,  _he's_  the one you should never trust with an iron – not that he knows how to use one," she added, pursing her lips and dragging said iron over a shirt that John now feared for. "John was just asking for the WiFi password."

"Oh, right." Mr. Holmes wandered out into the dining room, leaning down over something and clearing his throat. "Well, predictably it's labelled 'HolmesWiFi' – the passcode is -"

John quickly typed in the code and felt a small measure of satisfaction as it successfully connected. "Cheers for that."

"Not at all," Tim said, walking over to the conservatory armchair opposite John and settling himself down with a small huff of air, ruffling the pages of the local paper and turning to the back pages. "It's a wonderful little contraption, that wireless router. No faffing about with the phone line anymore."

John tried not to smile; Sherlock's parents were so bloody endearing. "We'd all be lost without it now, I think."

"Yes, yes, quite... blimey, have you seen this, Wanda? Goring United have picked up Benjamin Greyson for the next season!"

Wanda rolled her eyes and sent a look of exasperation down to John who was still trying to suppress his grin, without much luck. "One day he'll realise I have no idea what he's talking about."

"He's only twenty, he'll be a damned good defensive player if Mendley can get his head out of his ar-"

" _Tim_! Language, John's here!"

Mr. Holmes peeped from behind his newspaper, eyes sparkling. "Sorry, John."

"Don't worry," John said with a small laugh as he opened up his e-mails and set out to compose a new message, "you should hear some of the things I hear out of Greg's mouth."

Tim chuckled good-naturedly behind his paper. "He's a good lad."

Wanda did not seem quite so amused. "Don't you let that boy be a bad influence on you, John, your mother would never forgive us. Now stop distracting me, you two, I've got at least half an hour's worth of ironing to get through!"

John allowed himself one last grin as he begrudgingly began entering Jim's e-mail address, tapping down to the main body of the e-mail and forcing himself to focus on the task at hand despite knowing as he did that he had no idea what he was supposed to say. A gentle calm settled over the three of them, Wanda humming again and Tim occasionally murmuring to himself about whatever he was reading about Goring United; John closed his eyes momentarily to let the contentment of the moment settle over him, not for the first time wondering how he would ever be able to go back to his ordinary life after having experienced such quiet happiness in this wonderful family home. He hadn't had a single moment to himself to let his depression start to edge its way in, and he could quite easily say that he would allow himself to never have a single moment of privacy again if it meant he could stay here and be eternally distracted by Wanda's insistent care-giving and Tim's gentle-mannered humour.

He sighed quietly, opening his eyes and staring at the blank face of the unwritten e-mail.

It had to be done.

_Jim,_

_I arrived at my destination yesterday evening. So far things seem to be fine. I suppose I should say that it wasn't a family emergency, rather a friend in a bad situation who needed me to be here. He's all right, though things are strained between us at the moment. I don't want to go into details. It's a complicated situation and I don't really want to go into it unless I absolutely have to._

_I've been feeling fine. There's been so much to do and so many distractions that I haven't had a chance to feel much of anything, depression-wise. I don't know how long I'll be here for. I actually quite like it here so I can't say I'm bothered by not having a clear time-scale._

_Don't know what more I'm supposed to say, so I'll leave it there._

_John._

That would have to do. As he'd specified, he didn't want to go into details and as far as he was concerned it was none of Jim Moriarty's business what was going on – of course, he was well aware that this was the wrong outlook to have when he was supposed to be opening himself up to the willing counsellor, but that was a problem for another day. If Jim had an issue with what he'd said he'd no doubt tell him so.

Stretching his arms out so hard his back gave a worrying 'crack', John let a blissful yawn escape his lips as he leaned partially forward to make the most of the moment; he let himself flop back down with a sigh of genuinely contentment, his eyes drifting to gaze out at the rain and finding himself completely entranced by the sheer velocity at which the water droplets crashed to the glass. He'd always loved the rain. He couldn't really explain it, particularly when people were obsessed with heat and sun and summer – ugh, summer – but there was something infinitely calming about the skies opening. Better yet would have been a storm. He loved a good storm.

"John?"

Brought out of his little stupor by Wanda's gentle, hesitant voice, he turned towards her with a willing smile. "Yeah?"

She put the iron down and turned to him, looking every inch like a mother who was about to ask a very, very awkward question - and John would know. His own mother was full of them. "I hope you don't think I'm interfering, and don't hesitate to tell me to leave you alone and go back to my ironing, but..."

Tim did not look away from his paper. "Leave the boy be, Wanda."

John shook his head, apprehension buzzing through his body but not wanting to deny the kind woman anything. "No, it's fine, go ahead."

"Well..." She gazed at him for a moment, unsure; for the first time since he had arrived he noticed that her eyes were the exact shape and colour of her youngest son's, once again alarming him to see something so infinitely  _Sherlock_  within the parents who couldn't be more unlike him if they tried – it was odd to see them rounded in concern, warmth emitting from them like a hot water bottle. Sherlock had looked at him with a  _lot_  of different expressions over their time together, but never quite like this. "Tell me to be quiet if I'm being too pushy -"

"Be quiet," Tim murmured from behind the shield of his paper; Wanda ignored him.

" - but is everything all right between you and Sherlock?"

John's mouth dropped open slightly, a twist of panic working its way through his stomach and freezing him in his place. "Uh..."

"Wanda, come on," Tim insisted quietly, letting the paper fall to his lap as he focused his own misty brown gaze on his wife, "leave him alone."

Wanda's eyes snapped away from John's. "They've barely spoken since he got here, Tim, it's  _obvious_  that something's not right." She shook her head, raising her hand as she picked up the iron once more. "I know it's none of my business and I could just be reading the situation wrong but – genuinely, John, I speak only out of concern for my son. And you, don't think I'm not thinking of you."

That she would even consider him right now made his heart tug uncomfortably in his chest. "You don't need to – no, Mrs. Holm- Wanda. Wanda. Everything's fine."

She rattled the ironing board a little. "I'm not so sure."

" _Wanda -_ " Tim's tone was a little less soft, a little more intent, "- it's none of our business, let it go."

"I just think -"

"Tim, Wanda, please..." John did not want this to be happening. It was just  _too_ bloody awkward. "Look, all right, things are a bit... strained. We had an... argument. Before Sherlock came home."

Both Holmes' parents were staring at him. Tim was the first to speak. "Like I said, John, it's none of our business..."

"It's fine," he insisted, shaking his head, "I don't want you to be worrying about it when I can just tell you. Yes, we had an argument and things are a bit complicated at the moment. But I'm here for a reason, I'm here because I don't want us to be in a bad place. He really is my... my best friend -" the words didn't even do it justice anymore, "- I genuinely care about him and I want to work through it."

Wanda had put the iron down again; she was looking at John with the most peculiar look on her face, impossibly to identify. He soon saw where Sherlock got his intensity from, the heat and focus of her gaze so impenetrable that he could not for a single moment look away. When she spoke, her voice was impossibly quiet.

"Are you and my son...  _involved_?"

Oh holy fucking  _christ_.

So that's where Sherlock got at least a hint of his observational skills from.

"Mrs. Holmes -"

"Oh, my." Her hand was raising to her mouth, eyes wide as she stared first at John and then her husband. "Oh...  _my_..."

"It's not like that, we're not _-_ "

"It makes sense now," she said with a slow shake of her head, leaning back on the door-frame as her eyes drifted back to him; he could not read what she was thinking, was nowhere near as good at this as she or her children. "He looked as if he'd had his heart ripped right out, I've never seen him so... so  _defeated_  in my whole life..."

"You're exaggerating, Wanda," Tim said sternly, pushing his newspaper to one side and crossing his legs; he didn't seem in the slightest bit concerned by what she was insinuating. "Sherlock's had a rough term and obviously, as John has said, had a bit of a fall-out with him before he came home. He was a little shaken up, nothing more."

"I know my son, Timothy," she moaned, her face flushed, her hands pressed flat to her stomach, "oh, I should've known, he never showed any interest in girls, I should've realised where this was going!"

"Please, Wanda," John was practically begging, at the edge of his seat as he raised his hands to deflect her panic, "Sherlock and I are just friends, best friends, no relationship to speak of."

Her eyes were still wide. "Have you two broken up? Is that why he's in so much pain?"

" _Wanda!_ " Tim stood up, exasperated. "Are you even listening to what the boy's saying? There's nothing to break up, they're just friends! Stop being such a drama queen!" He turned to John. "I'm so sorry, she does like to get ideas in her head -"

"John. John." Wanda was approaching him, her own hands outstretched as if to calm him when it was in fact  _her_  who seemed to need a moment. To her credit she at least seemed to be trying to sound as if she had it all under control. "I'm not upset. All right? I'm not. But I need to know. Is there something going on between you and my son?"

This situation had escalated so quickly, like every other situation when a Holmes was involved; her phrasing, too, was different this time, too hard to dodge – he didn't want to lie, not when she was no longer asking about a relationship but rather inferring that  _something_  was happening between them.

He wished she would be more specific so he could keep denying it.

Tim tried one last time. "Please, dear, just let the boy handle things in his own way."

She did not even look towards her husband. "John?"

Well, he was screwed now. "I... I don't want to  _lie_  to you..."

Wanda's intake of breath was painfully audible.

"Sherlock and I -"

"Are absolutely none of your business, Mummy," Mycroft's voice cut across John as he came into view from the dining room, hands in his pockets and brow curved. John had never been so happy to see the man in his entire life. His palms were sweating. "Really, he's been here barely two days and you're already terrorising him."

Wanda stared at her eldest son like he was a spectre at a feast; it would have been funny if the situation wasn't so bum-clenchingly awkward. "I'm... I'm not  _terrorising_  him -"

"Yes, you are. It's terribly rude of you." Mycroft walked calmly over to where John was sitting and allowed himself to settle next to him, crossing his legs and looking up at his mother with a reproachful expression he could have copied and pasted from her own face. "John and Sherlock's business is none of yours, regardless of what may or may not be going on between them."

"Mycroft," Tim chided gently, "you shouldn't talk to your mother like that."

"I'm not meaning to be disrespectful by any count," he assured them all in those well-spoken, silken tones, "quite the contrary. I'm merely trying to respect  _Sherlock,_ whilst he's so blatantly unable to defend himself."

"I wasn't  _accusing_  him of anything," Wanda blustered, suddenly looking rather lost, "I most certainly wasn't saying it was a  _bad_  thing!"

John's eyes shot to her face, surprise evident on his own. "You weren't? I thought..." Everyone turned to look at him. His palms tingled with renewed moisture. "Well. I thought you were upset by the... possibility."

All at once her expression changed to one of absolute horror. "No! No, absolutely not! The opposite, the very opposite – oh, dear, I have gone about this quite the wrong way, haven't I?" She carried herself over to him slowly, taking her time to form the words before she let them loose into the air around him; she perched on the arm of the sofa he sat on, gathering her hands in her lap. "I should explain, John, that until now I was quite certain that Sherlock... and Mycroft..." her eyes flickered up to rest apologetically on her sons face, "...well. I thought that perhaps they weren't  _capable_  of a... relationship."

"No need to look so abashed, Mother, you're quite right." Mycroft seemed unperturbed by her words, looking as gracefully nonchalant as John wished  _he_  could in a situation like this. "I have no desire to form such a bond and certainly no willing participants."

"Which is fine by us," Tim interjected, shrugging lightly, "it's not up to us what you do with your lives after all."

"Quite," Wanda said with a firm nod, reaching over John to pat Mycroft on the hand, "you have enough to be getting on with without the added responsibility of a girlfriend. Or boyfriend."

Mycroft smirked. "My parents, allies to the gay community since 2013."

"Hush," Mrs. Holmes admonished, whacking his arm lightly before resuming her communication with John. "So, John, you must understand that the idea that perhaps Sherlock  _does_  have the ability to... form a relationship... well, it doesn't matter to me whether it's with a girl or not. The fact that he's capable is enough of a relief to disregard any sort of  _bigotry_."

"Don't worry about me and my inability to conform to your needs," Mycroft said with a roll of his eyes, "I'm not offended at all."

"Hush," Wanda repeated, a small smile crinkling at the edges of her eyes. "You know your father and I support you regardless of what you choose or don't choose to do. To be honest, Mycroft, we don't feel that we  _need_  to worry about you quite as much as we do your brother. He's much more... oh, what's the word..."

"Melodramatic? Needy? Dependant?"

"Sensitive," Tim offered, ignoring Mycroft. John had a feeling that's how they tended to deal with his snarkily edged comments. "He's always been more sensitive than you."

"Redbeard," Mycroft offered to the room with open palms. "Need I say more?"

His parents hummed their agreement, a fond smile curving Wanda's lips. "Yes, he was always a little more affected by things than you were. Which is why I always felt that perhaps he might need the stability of a partner, someone to support him and keep him from sinking into his black moods."

_Black moods_. It was the perfect way to describe them. "So it really wouldn't bother you?"

She shrugged. "As long as both of my boys are healthy and happy it really doesn't make a difference to me."

"Or me," Tim added, seeming to be perfectly content at the idea of his son being gay, "as long as he's happy."

John did not know what to say. Even having met the two staggeringly lovely people in front of him he would have never considered the possibility of them being so utterly accepting of whatever their sons wanted from their lives; the memory of his mother yelling at his drunken father and blaming him for Harry's homosexuality was still fresh in his mind despite it having been at least three years ago, his sister crying on the front doorstep of their house as her girlfriend of the time attempted to console her... it had been hell for days just to live under the same roof as them. The fact was that he was sure his mother had never quite forgiven Harry for being a lesbian, despite it not really being much a choice; it had been a difficult realisation for John to understand that their parents were simply narrow-minded people – loving, of course, his mother had always been loving – but still incredibly outdated against the times.

It was no surprise, really, that John had never even considered the possibility that his and Sherlock's friendship was something else entirely.

"I'm sorry for leaping down your throat, dear," Wanda interrupted his thoughts softly, reaching out to place a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I was just a little shocked, that's all."

Tim cleared his throat. "As he's said, dear, there's nothing to be shocked about. They're friends."

Mycroft shot John a quick look as he nodded in agreement. "Well then. We're agreed. This conversation is now entirely unnecessary."

Wanda could not stop herself from looking under her lashes at John. "Mm. If you're  _sure_  there's nothing you want to tell us -"

" _Wanda!_ "


	39. Unforgivable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: I am done. I am done with this fanfiction. How is it that I tremble whilst writing my own damned words? HOW IS THAT ACCEPTABLE OR REASONABLE OR ANYTHING I CAN EVEN COMPREHEND?!**
> 
> **Obviously I'm not done. I could never be done. I may write this forever.**
> 
> **I need to say this, my darlings: I adore you. My twenty-five year old heart just grows and widens and surges every time I read a new comment, see a new username; I genuinely fall in love with you all just a little more every time you come on here and take the time to read and review. So, yes, maybe I will write this forever, if only so that I can keep adoring and worshipping you all from afar.**
> 
> **...all right, I'm done sounding creepy now. I so ardently hope that you enjoy this chapter and that your enjoyment is heightened by the fact that THE BALL SCENE BEGINS IN THE NEXT CHAPTER and I LOVE YOU, OKAY?!**
> 
> **~ Your eternally devoted Lisabeth/Moffabeth ~**

**Chapter Thirty-Nine**

_John,_

_Thank you for your update. You must be a very loyal person to drop your studies in order to go and spend time with your friend. Distractions are good, but do try to take a little time for yourself. Nothing will get better if you ignore the situation._

_Jo asked me to let you know that you got a 68 in your last essay. Congratulations!_

_Jim_

**\- X -**

The rest of Tuesday and the entirety of Wednesday passed so quickly for John that he could barely comprehend it; his days were a wash of walking, food and various activities that most would consider mundane – he accompanied Wanda to her weekly shop at the nearest supermarket (which happened to be a forty-five minute drive away) and was regaled with stories of her two sons in their childhood, embarrassing tales that no doubt would make Sherlock positively  _furious_  at his mother should he find out. Naturally, of course, John wouldn't say a word to him about it, it would just make their situation far worse if Sherlock felt his mother were in cahoots with his ex-friend. Just as naturally, John planned to make Mycroft's life a living hell with them. According to Mrs. Holmes, her eldest son would dress up in his mother's pearls and proceed to dance around the living room stark naked at the tender age of five, singing along to Elvis Presley; personally that was John's favourite.

Well. Unless you counted every single story about Sherlock.

"He was such an imaginative child," Wanda had told him as she'd prodded at a lettuce and wrinkled her nose at it, moving on to the one above it. "He used to tell  _me_  stories before he went to sleep, all about him and Redbeard and all of the adventures they went on together. Did he ever tell you about Redbeard?"

John had nodded, a small smile forming on his lips at the memory of their getting-to-know-you day. "Yeah, a little bit. He told me he used to pretend to be the captain of a pirate ship with his faithful first mate, Redheard the Hairy."

Wanda's smile spoke volumes. "Oh, that was it! I was having trouble remembering what he called Redbeard. Yes, that's right, and he called himself William the Brave, with Redbeard the Hairy. Delightful. I always wondered if I should be concerned that his only friend was the dog but in the end he was happy so I didn't see a problem with it. Perhaps I should have forced him to meet other children."

"No, absolutely not," John had protested, glancing over at the shopping list and plucking a bag of carrots from a towering pile, "he would have  _hated_  that. I don't think it would have changed him or how he is. It would have just made him even more unreachable."

She'd glanced at him. "I think it would be safe to say that he's not  _so_  unreachable."

"Well, I guess I just got lucky -" He had stopped suddenly, looking at her and seeing within her eyes an absolutely terrifying glimmer of determination; damn, she was clever. It was the only time they'd spent alone in the last few days since the whole 'relationship' talk had come up and it was clear that she was going to make the most of it. "Well, I'm not going to fall into  _that_  trap."

"What trap?" she'd said innocently, picking up a turnip and turning it over in her hands. "There's no trap, John, whatever do you mean?"

He'd let it go, if only for his own sanity.

On the way back from shopping she began chatting quite gaily away about the ball again, turning down the radio so that she could wax lyrical about it without Michael Jackson and the kid that was, according to the lyrics, not his son trying to interfere. "Two more sleeps, are you excited? Honestly, John, it really is such good fun. You'll look so handsome in your tuxedo, I'm so glad we found one at Franco's – and wait until you see Sherlock,  _oh_ , he's just as handsome as his father!" He saw her shoot him a glance and ignored it, trying to appear distracted by something out of the window. "Those boys and their dark, brooding good looks, they'd be heart-breakers if they knew how."

"Oh, believe me, they don't need to know how to break people's hearts in order to do it. Sherlock has an entire harem after him from the class he lectures on Saturdays."

"Really?"

"Yep. He's not kind in his rejection either. There've been tears shed."

Wanda pursed her lips. "I hope he's not  _too_  cruel. That's not how I raised him."

John shrugged. "He doesn't do it to be cruel, though. He just says what he thinks. I guess it doesn't affect me anymore, it's just what I've come to expect from him."

"Mm. Well. He's lucky to have you."

This, at least, seemed to have been offered in all its genuinely good intentions rather than to sneakily suggest anything; John appreciated it. "Thank you. I feel the same way about him."

Wanda nodded and stayed silent for a few moments, almost as if she were waiting for something; he wasn't an idiot, he knew what she was waiting for – for him to go into depth about how lucky he felt and why – but he was well aware that anything he said to her could be taken wrongly... or perhaps the real issue was that she'd take it exactly as he meant it. His head was a mess. The words he would no doubt say would cause him more confusion than he could bear at that moment, so he left her to wait it out.

When she did speak, she was back to talking about the ball. "I can't wait for you to see the hall, John. It's beautiful. You drive up this long, torch-lit driveway to the house – we don't use the village hall, it's actually someone's country house about an hour's drive from here – and you get led through these lovely heavy double doors and through the marble-floored entrance hall and into the ballroom, chandeliers and a raised platform for the performers... my, listening to myself talk about it makes it sound like something from a story book!"

John couldn't agree more. "When you first mentioned it the other day I started picturing something written by Jane Austen, I won't lie."

"Oh! Like Pride and Prejudice?"

"Yeah."

Wanda's lips were twitching amusement. "You've read it?"

"We had to read it at school," he explained, painful memories of the dragging lessons floating above his head like a ghost, "and I never really recovered."

She shook her head slowly, an odd flush rising to her cheeks. "It's one of my favourite novels of all time, especially as I met Sherlock's father at one of the village balls when I was seventeen."

John looked at her, genuinely interested. "You did? Was it love at first sight?"

"Oh, for me, absolutely. He was standing there, all stiff and dark and brooding – yes, I can see your little smile, I immediately thought of Mr. Darcy, my heart leaping into my throat – and he was wearing this tuxedo, John, this beautiful combination of black and red and it just made his eyes  _burn_..."

The passion in her voice was a little embarrassing, but he didn't want her to stop talking. "Did you dance, just like Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth?"

"Not that time," she said sheepishly, reaching up and tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear – she instantly looked ten years younger, simply from this obviously self-conscious motion and the topic of conversation. "I didn't have the confidence to talk to him, though Mummy took great pleasure in my obvious attraction. Oddly enough, a week before the next ball, she came to me and told me that 'the handsome Holmes boy from last year' had been asking his own mother if I would be there. It's not a big village," she said with a smile, "so everyone knew each other."

"He noticed you, then."

"Apparently. Every year on our anniversary he retells the story to me of how he was so bored and preparing to leave when he looked across the room and saw me standing awkwardly next to my mother, clutching a glass of champagne and playing with the material of the pink dress I was wearing. He says it was the most defining moment of his life. That if he had left just minutes before he wouldn't have seen me." Her cheeks were burning. "At the next ball, the second one, he asked my mother permission to dance with me and that was that. I was in love and there wasn't a single man who could distract me."

John gave her a sidelong glance. "I'm sure there were a lot of them who tried."

"Oh, you." She looked absolutely thrilled at the compliment. "There were a few, I won't lie, but when you find that someone... the one who makes your heart feel all aflutter with a smile and your stomach ache when they're not near... well. Everyone else fades into the background." Her eyes flickered to his face and back to the road again. "You'll find out for yourself one day, when she comes along."

John stared out at the trees flashing by, not really seeing them at all.

**\- X -**

The next day Sherlock found himself staring at his mother like she'd thrown a pile of manure at his feet, Barry Manilow crooning about time in New England in the background. "I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"

Wanda gave her youngest son what John could only describe as the biggest shit-eating grin he had ever seen and laid her hands on the pile of food in front of her. "Well, John told me what a marvel you two are in the kitchen, so I thought you could both give us the pleasure of your expertise tonight and make us something!"

Sherlock's eyes travelled slowly down to the vegetables and mincemeat sitting on the counter. "You want me to cook for you."

"No," she said with a wave of her hand, "no, I want you and John to cook  _together_. Teamwork!"

"Lasagne," John murmured, recognising the ingredients instantly. "I told you we'd made lasagne."

"Yes, you did!" she said brightly, turning her grin to him without a single glint of guilt in the eyes that could have easily been taken from her son's own head. "I don't forget anything, you'll soon find that out."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, clearly aimed towards John despite him not directing the gaze towards him. "I'm not going to cook."

"Yes you are, dear."

"No," he said, irritation creeping into his voice with no attempt to shadow it, "I'm not. I don't want to. He can do it on his own."

Wanda's well-aging face wrinkled into a frown. "Did it sound like I was asking? You've done absolutely nothing towards household tasks since you got home, young man, and for someone who turns twenty next year you certainly can't get away with hiding in your room for the entire summer. So, in response to my own question, no, I wasn't asking. I'm telling."

It was the first time John had ever heard her speak to Sherlock like he was a normal teenager instead of a delicate child; the grin that spread across his face was impossible to suppress. Sherlock's eyes narrowed even further still, though he was certainly determined to keep himself from looking at his friend as he directed his stiff words to the woman who was glaring at him with all the authority of the Pope. "I don't  _want_  to."

"Tough," she said shortly, turning away and reaching for the cup of tea she had just made for her husband, "you're just going to have to stop acting like a seven year old and get on with it like the adult you are." She bustled past them, giving John a rapid knowing look which disappeared as quickly as it had come. "I'm sure you can find a way to make him behave, John."

"Not likely," he muttered, taking the slow steps towards the heap of food with a growing sense of apprehension, "but we all have our crosses to bear."

Her laugh as she walked through into the dining room was one of pure joy.

John picked up the pack of mince without looking at the dark-haired man who was now staring at him with all the ice of the Arctic, holding it in both hands. "So. You cut up the peppers, mushrooms and tomatoes and I'll start cooking the meat."

Barry faded out on the radio and was replaced by a very emotional-sounding Whitney Houston. Sherlock did not move.

"Fine," John said bluntly, striding over to where the frying pan sat ready and waiting, switching on the gas and lighting the flame, "go and carry on sulking in your room and I'll do it."

When Sherlock's voice came it was gloriously reminiscent of the tone he used during every major sulk they'd had before this moment. "I haven't been  _sulking_. I'm not a child."

"Prove it." John shrugged as if it didn't much matter, pouring vegetable oil into the pan and reaching out for a knife to slice through the top of the plastic packaging of the mince. "Do something useful without complaining like a pre-adolescent."

"I'm not compl-"

"Here -" John turned with the knife he had used in his hand, whacking it onto the central countertop before turning back around to face the rapidly heating metal, " - you can use this."

Though he could not see out of the back of his head (and judging by the prickling sensation of the death-glare he was sure was being shot at him he was rather glad that he couldn't) he heard as Sherlock took his reluctant steps towards the counter and slid the sharp instrument towards him, and the deep sigh that followed. "I don't know why you're bothering."

John tipped the mince into the pan and picked up the wooden spatula beside him, listening intently as he waited for the first sound of vegetables being cut; he was rewarded with a perhaps slightly violent 'thud' of a knife against the chopping board. "I'm bothering because I think your mum is trying to help and I don't want to seem ungrateful."

Another thud, another sigh. "Help with what? And she already  _adores_  you -" the inflection was pure mockery, " - so I don't see what you're so worried about."

John poked at the meat with the spatula, trying to ignore his desire to turn around and face the man who still so clearly did not want him here. "I don't know if you've noticed, Sherlock, but she's not exactly unobservant."

"What's  _that_  supposed to mean?"

"It means that she's noticed that something's going on between us and she's concerned. So she's giving us a chance to make nice by working together."

Two extra-loud thuds and a moment of silence. "Has she said something to you?"

"Yes," John said reluctantly, not really wanting to go into detail, "and she's worried."

"There's nothing to be worried about. She's just being a drama-queen."

"You'd know  _plenty_  about that."

Sherlock slammed the knife down, the echoing sound followed by the smack of hands against marble. "Oh, so I'm a drama-queen now?"

John gave the mince another hard poke before half-turning and letting himself glance towards his best friend, unsurprised to see childish anger swimming close to the surface. It did nothing to impede the flight of his words, more likely that it pushed them out. "Yeah, Sherlock, you are a drama-queen. You're the biggest drama-queen, worse than your mother, worse than Mycroft -"

Sherlock's brow creased into a deep frown, mouth dropping open as he took the accusation as offensively as it was intended. "Worse than  _Mycroft_?"

"Ten times worse," John advised roughly, not even bothering to look at what he was doing as he started prodding the mince with perhaps a little too much force. "If it wasn't for you and all your melodrama none of this would have even happened. I wouldn't even be here."

"Oh, well," Sherlock snorted, grabbing the knife again and starting to haphazardly chop at the peppers in front of him, "I can tell what a burden it is to you, being here. Going on cosy walks with my parents, letting them hire you a tuxedo to come to the ridiculous farce that is the village ball, having  _wonderfully_  fun shopping trips with my mother -"

"I didn't  _let_  them hire it for me, I was practically forced," John argued, the heat from the pan mixing with the heat of his irritation, "though for the record I'm grateful to them for even bothering when it's obvious that this is a complete and utter waste of time. It's not like I could turn them down when they seem to be under the misapprehension that I'm somehow going to be of some use to you by being here."

Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes cold. "Then go home. If it's such a waste of time for you, go home. Or back to university. I don't care."

John found he couldn't stand to look at him anymore; he turned back to the pan and started aggressively separating the chunks of mince that he had not paid enough attention to. "If that's how you feel, then, fine. I'll finish this and go apologise to your parents for infringing on their hospitality, pack my bag and leave."

"I don't know why you didn't do it sooner," the curly-haired boy behind him muttered under his breath, though certainly with the intention of being heard. "Better yet would've been if you'd never come at all."

The older man was gripping the spatula so tight he was surprised it was still in one piece. "I'm glad I came, Sherlock. I'm glad. Because it gave me a chance to see how utterly pointless it is to try and break past that iceberg of a defensive wall you've built up - you haven't even given me a chance, which is pretty shitty when I came here with the intention of giving you a million of them."

"I gave you a chance!" There was no hint of sarcasm to Sherlock's tone as three hard thuds followed his words. "I came to your room and apologised!"

John whirled around, brandishing the spatula like a rapier. " _That_  was you giving me a chance? Apologising for what was frankly the most hurtful thing you could have possibly said?"

"Please, John, it's not as if I insulted  _you -_ "

"How do you even reason with yourself?" John refused to try and mask his anger, so matured as it was, and so quickly; his voice was too loud, far too loud when there were no doors and only archways for the sound to travel through. "How can you look me in the eye and tell me I'm the most ignorant man you've ever met and then go on to prove such  _resounding_  stupidity? It doesn't matter that you weren't insulting me, Sherlock, it doesn't matter that all of your bitterness was worded around my bloody father's drinking problem, you did it purposefully to embarrass me! To  _hurt_  me. And I..." John broke off, his knuckles white as he tightened his grip on the wooden instrument in his hand. He allowed himself a moment. "And I haven't even done anything to you. To deserve that. Nothing."

Sherlock's face was pale, paler than usual. All of his own irritation seemed to have vanished into thin air. "I... I didn't intend..."

"Yes, you did," John clarified with a shrug, his voice suddenly far quieter and almost achingly hollow, "so don't bother denying it. You were angry at me for being there, for... what happened. So you saw it as only fitting that you make it impossible for me to want to stick around. Me being here just reminds you of what sent you here in the first place. You took all of that anger and you directed it right back at me." His sentences were short, to the point. He couldn't hash about with sugar-coating. There was obviously no point. "Don't tell me you weren't trying to hurt me when you think it's the very thing that I deserve."

Sherlock seemed completely at a loss – speechless for the first time since John had met him. He turned from John with partially-separated lips, his suddenly taut face lowered as he picked up the knife again and began to chop the last of the pepper into irregular sizes, barely concentrating; John swivelled slowly back to the pan, his entire body pulsing from the words he had spoken and the lack of denial from the man who was clearly no longer his friend, his mind painfully whirling in circles as he found himself switching to auto-pilot as he picked up a tin of chopped tomatoes and began to open them, stirring them in -

" _Shit -_ "

His body tensed at the curse from behind him, reacting instinctively as he turned to see what had inspired a rare swearword from the genius who had once mocked John for how idiotic he had sounded when overusing them; his eyes found Sherlock and the problem instantly, a hand cradled to the taller man's chest as the fingers below it rose to catch the droplets of blood that started to trickle over his skin, the offending knife cast aside with a small stretch of crimson arching its edge.

John's feet were moving before he could stop himself. "Get it under a tap – do you have a first aid kit?" His words were unnecessary – he saw the little green box sitting underneath the shelf of keys by the front door, his hands grabbing for it and flicking the catch so that the lid popped open and he found himself facing a myriad of bandages, plasters and antiseptic wipes; he grabbed one of each of the latter two, striding over to where Sherlock was still standing with blood casually dripping into the cupped palm beneath the injury and reaching out without thinking to grasp the top of Sherlock's arm. He felt rather than saw the instant jerk of Sherlock's reaction to his insistent touch but, distracted by the circumstances of the situation, ignored it and instead dragged his friend/ex-friend/ _someone_  over to the sink and quickly turned the cold tap on. He grasped Sherlock's wrist and rapidly unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt, pushing the material up the genius's arm and pulling on it until the bleeding finger was under the steady stream. A gentle hiss escaped through Sherlock's gritted teeth as the blood began to wash away.

"Keep it under there for a few minutes," John ordered, letting go of the wrist and reaching out for the antiseptic wipe he had thrown onto the counter beside him. "We need the majority of the bleeding to stop before we put the plaster on."

Sherlock's lips separated, his voice low. "Stupid pepper, slipped out from underneath my hands -"

"You weren't concentrating," the sandy-haired young man said without sympathy, one hand on his hip as he watched Sherlock try to keep his hand steady underneath the flow of cold water, "you should consider yourself lucky. It could have been far worse."

The words that came were even quieter than those of before. "I was distracted."

"That's no excuse. You should be paying more attention."

Eyes that had been focused on the blood seeping into the drain snapped up and locked onto John's face. "I was."

Two simple words and it may as well have been any number of moments before now, so many blurred in John's memory that he couldn't specify a single one; his own eyes dragged unwillingly up to meet Sherlock's heavy gaze, knowing even as he did that this would be a mistake and would take away every inch of the self-righteous anger and determination that was still currently pumping around his body. It was an endless journey to meet Sherlock's stare, utterly reluctant and completely without any sense of control, and when he finally found himself looking into the endless pools of ice and silver that were fixed on him with a body-wracking severity he was proved frustratingly, nonsensically right as his heart began to thud with an emotion far more powerful than rage and far more dangerous than hurt. His fingers clenched around the antiseptic wipe and his entire body began to hum, irrepressibly frozen in place by the sheer depth of fervour in Sherlock's eyes.

The only sounds in the room were that of the water hitting the stainless steel and the ticking of the clock on the wall.

Sherlock was the first to speak, barely a murmur. "John -"

The sound of his name should have brought him back to reality; instead it drew him into this hazy moment even further. He was useless.

"I don't want to hurt you."

If he somehow had the strength to close his eyes against the silver fire burning into them he could not find it within himself. He could barely force words from his lips, surprising as there were so many he could offer. "It doesn't matter, I understand -"

"No," Sherlock reprimanded quietly, pulling his finger from beneath the stream of water and letting his hand fall to his side, "yet again I think it's  _you_  that doesn't understand."

John could not speak. He could only wait, and try to remember how to inhale and exhale.

"I hurt you. I hurt you knowingly and willingly, as you said, with every intention of making it so unbearable for you here that you would have to leave. It is unforgivable. I have done so many things that are entirely... unforgivable."

John began to take a step back, trying to pull himself out of the madness taking over his head as he brought his fumbling fingers up to rip the edge of the packet he had crumpled into his palm. "Let's just forget about it, we need to get your finger -"

"I said and did things in order to push you away, John, because I couldn't even begin to fathom how to move forward in a world where logic has been replaced with sentiment and knowledge replaced by my own blistering ignorance." Sherlock seemed to teeter on the edge of moving towards John but stopped himself, perhaps even leaning back slightly. "The fact of the matter is that the experience I have been struggling through was forced onto you unwillingly by people who seemed to think they were acting under good intentions, when the truth is that it should have never been their responsibility to inform you in the first place; the blame of this situation rests wholly on my shoulders, and  _that_  is why I have shut myself away and refused to even acknowledge your presence in my home. It was easier to live within the protective bubble I created for myself and loathe myself in private for what I had said and done than approach you and ask for your forgiveness."

It was like looking at two entirely different people, the contrast too jarring to comprehend; just minutes before the man before him had been throwing words like a poison dart straight into his back, and now he was... this.  _This_. John was staring at Sherlock with all the gracelessness of a newborn foal and he was struggling to find any appropriate vocabulary with which to respond. "Well, it's... there's... Sherlock, you don't need to apologise for... for anything, for any of it."

The walls were coming down; perhaps they were already down, for John was now experiencing first-hand the broken, defeated boy that Wanda had described to him just a day before. The eyes on his were agonisingly full, confusion and the self-proclaimed self-loathing that Sherlock had spoken of so openly. "I walked away from you last week in a haze of anger and rejection -"

"I didn't -"

"- and I let my revolting sense of pride and, here it is again,  _ignorance_  blur my vision enough that I could not see past it quickly enough to realise my mistake in time to rectify it."

Mistake. Mistake? What mistake?

Had Sherlock so easily changed his mind?

John could feel the weight of all of the last week's considerations start to crumble. He could barely understand his own feelings at this point and now he was being forced to reconsider Sherlock's."It was a mistake?"

"Yes." Sherlock's spine began to straighten slowly, his chin tilting up ever so slightly but not enough to signify arrogance; rather he seemed to be preparing his defensive barriers once again. "And I don't plan on making the same mistake twice. So let me clarify it for you."

John's entire body felt as tense as a rubber band about to snap. Sherlock's lips moved, but the words seemed delayed as they fell into the delicate whorl of John's ears.

"I have fallen in love with you, John."

Was the room spinning? Or was John?

"But my understanding of love is that it is only worth giving if you are willing to make sacrifices in the name of it."

It wasn't the room  _or_  John; it was Sherlock. How was Sherlock spinning when he was standing so tall and so still?

"So, if you'll have me..." Sherlock's hesitation was palpable, his lips mouthing words before he spoke them as if making sure they were the right ones; John found he was suddenly able to lip-read, or in the very least he knew which words would come before they arrived in the space between them. "If you'll forgive me... I would like to resume our friendship and do with it what we can in the rubble of destruction that I have left behind."

John's eyes, which had at some point had found themselves fixated on the dark-haired boy's lips, flickered hazily back up to meet Sherlock's.

"Though I would quite understand if you choose... not to."

He did not have words, for words were pointless; everything was a mess of colour and confusion and John was genuinely unsure as to whether he was coming or going – and what an odd sentence that was. He wasn't going. He couldn't possibly move. But going, going forward, where would they be going forward to? Surely at this point it would be to take a step back to accept Sherlock's proposition and carry on as if nothing had happened?

Was this how Sherlock's mind worked? How could he stand it?

John decided amidst the crushing fog in his brain that if he couldn't agree or disagree he would have to do  _something_ , and in the very least as words seemed to be evading him he would have to do something  _useful_. It was with surprisingly steady hands that he reached out and took Sherlock's wrist gently within his grasp and pulled it towards him, shaking the antiseptic wipe free and letting the packet drop to the floor as he began to dab the cool, damp material against the wound. His eyes were now safely focused on the finger he so intently began attending to; rather than finding himself lost in an intense gaze he instead allowed his stare to travel over the lines and creases of the hand he now held within his own, knowing as he did that his mind was storing the information away and that at some point, be it later that evening or two minutes from now, he would revisit the memory of it and find himself infinitely lost at the reminder of the texture and warmth he was suddenly so determinedly concentrating on.

As he removed the wipe and dropped it into the sink, absent-mindedly turning off the still-running tap and reaching out to grab the plaster, placing it lightly over the wound and removing the plastic over the sticky edges, Sherlock's voice came out quietly above his head and seemed to settle on each strand of hair, travelling down until it slipped and vibrated against his eardrums.

"Don't leave, John."

John's hand momentarily curled around Sherlock's; if the genius was aware of the movement he did not say a word about it.

"Stay."

Without a single moment spared, John released his grip on Sherlock's hand and steadily made his way back over to the mince which was now brown, burned and bubbling amidst some very, very hot tomatoes. His hands betrayed him as they picked up the spatula, trembling enough that he had to close his eyes for just a minute to bring his racing heart back down to earth and cease the shaking fingers that slowly wrapped themselves around the handle of the frying pan.

The melody of a pop song that John had once known all the words to floated across the distance between them and perfectly underlined the words he had been saying all along.

"I'm not going anywhere."


	40. Details

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: After this chapter - a chapter that took over 16 hours straight to write so that it would be what I wanted it to be - I have no words to offer you. Only love. Only my eternal, exhausted, adoring love. Comments... oh, please. Comments.**
> 
> **NB: I stole a small passage from a one-shot a wrote a few months ago. I feel no guilt. It's beautiful. Judge me and I will literally break your face off.**
> 
> **NB + 1: I do love you, though.**
> 
> **NB + 2: I JUST FOUND OUT THAT PIECROFT ALREADY EXISTED WITHIN THAT FINGER SLIP FANFICTION. I AM FUCKING DEVASTATED.**
> 
> **NB + 3: This here is the piece of music that Sherlock plays at the ball: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OnBue1cIO24**

**Chapter Forty**

All at once, John's time with the Holmes family changed. They sat at dinner that Thursday evening with Sherlock no longer at the opposite side of the table but by his side (Wanda shooting them furtive looks over forkfuls of lasagne), gentle conversation amidst the sharp but undeniably funny banter between the two Holmes brothers making for the most enjoyable evening since John had arrived. He did not stop Sherlock as he leaned over to refill John's glass of wine, a light flush from the warmth of the alcohol spreading over his cheeks as he laughed and joked with Tim about university life and Wanda waxed lyrical about the (admittedly burnt) food that he and Sherlock had created together; by the time he'd finished his second glass the room was pleasantly furry, Mycroft's indignation and denial about dancing to Elvis dressed only in pearls made even funnier as Sherlock quietly crooned 'It's Now Or Never' to John's left, the small smirk on his full lips growing ever so slightly at the sound of his friend's tipsy giggles. He found it all too easy to turn to the dark-haired man and grin widely as Sherlock told them all a censored version of their ill-fated game of Ring of Fire, playing John as the villain just as much as Greg – Tim in particular was intrigued by the game, chuckling as he told Sherlock he was disappointed in him for not drinking brandy, Wanda whacking him lightly on the arm and telling him to stop being such a bad influence on their children.

As the evening drew to a close and all of the washing up had been completed, Mycroft heading up the stairs to bed and Tim and Sherlock still at the table discussing something to do with the pros and cons of leaving a glass of brandy to 'breathe' before drinking it, John found himself standing alone in the kitchen with Mrs. Holmes as she hummed along to the radio and scrubbed at the rather dirty stove; naturally she had refused any offer of help, instead asking questions about his family and his plans for after university, seemingly genuinely interested and enthusiastic.

"And your sister?" she asked as she rinsed the dishcloth under hot water. "Is she married?"

John waited a few moments before answering. "She's not really the type to settle down, at least not yet. She enjoys the thrill of the chase too much to find someone she wants to spend the rest of her life with."

"Well, if she's anything like you she'll have tons of them at her doorstep." She flashed him a smile. "She'll be beating men away with a stick!"

Well. It was unavoidable. "Harry's actually... well, she doesn't... she's a lesbian."

Mrs. Holmes turned slowly, momentarily looking shocked before she remembered to smile and nod, looking ever so slightly flustered. "Well! That's nice."

"Mum and Dad didn't take it too well, but I don't have a problem with it," John said with a small shrug, folding his arms over his chest in an instinctual defensive stance. "She knows what she wants and it's not hurting anybody."

"Absolutely," she agreed, nodding even more enthusiastically than before. "They're exactly my feelings too, John. No parent should judge their child for their choice in love, if only because it's not really a choice at all. Is it?"

John met her gaze, wavering only slightly. "No. I don't think it's a choice."

She stared at him for a few moments more, clearly wanting to say something; the unspoken words hung in the air between them but, apparently choosing not to voice them, she instead gently shook her head and turned back to the sink. Her voice sounded oddly thick as she said lightly, "I'm glad that you and Sherlock have patched things up."

He did not know what it was about this woman, and he was relatively certain he would never be able to put his finger on it, but not for the first time he had a strong desire to go to her and hug her – perhaps it was his lack of appropriate words, the inability to put what he wanted to say across in a language that she would understand, but for whatever reason he felt that, if there were any time to do it, there was no time like the present. He took a few steps towards her as she turned to face him again, her eyes somewhat damp, and gently wrapped his arms around her.

She sniffed loudly in his ear. "Well, whatever is this for?"

"To thank you," he said quietly, tightening his arms just for a moment, noting with an odd surge of emotion that she smelled of citrus and comfort, "and because I don't really know what to say."

Slowly her arms found their way around him as she returned his hug tighter than he had prepared for, sniffing again. "Sometimes it's better not to say anything, I think."

He gave her one last squeeze and separated himself from her, taking a step back and feeling only mildly embarrassed as he offered her a small smile. "I hope so. I seem to have a considerably lax grasp of the English language recently."

"Recently?" The deep voice came from the entrance to the kitchen, Sherlock standing beside his father with a raised eyebrow and amusement glittering in his eyes. "John, you underestimate yourself. I'd be more inclined to go with  _always_."

Tim was looking between his wife and John with warm eyes, though whether he'd seen their hug or not John was unsure. He began to wonder if perhaps he'd overstepped his mark when Tim spoke. "I don't know, she'll be filling out adoption forms soon if you're not careful, John!"

Sherlock and Wanda both spoke at the same time, their words a jumble of protestations:

"I'm not so sure that would be appropriate..."

"Don't be so ridiculous, Tim, really!"

The matriarch and her youngest shared a look. Tim and John glanced at each other.

Wanda's head tilted ever so slightly to the side, eyes still on her son. "Sherlock, dear, would you help me put the table linens away?"

"Oh, we already did that -"

"Well, then, they're probably creased as anything," Wanda interrupted Tim briskly, striding past him and reaching out to touch Sherlock's arm lightly, "so we'll just go and do it again. John, I washed your towels and put some clean ones in your room if you'd like to have a shower."

It didn't sound much like a throwaway comment; no, it sounded much more like a gentle demand. John looked from Sherlock, who was staring at his mother with a strange expression on his face, to Tim, who looked more bemused than anything else. "Uh... thanks. Yeah, I'll go and do that then."

"Good, good. Sherlock? The linens?"

Wordlessly Sherlock turned and followed his mother out into the dining room, not even giving John so much as a 'goodnight'; John didn't particularly blame him. He'd be distracted too – not to mention nervous – at her request. He had a horrible idea that he knew the exchange that was about to pass between them and he was well aware that if he stayed he would overhear a conversation that was by and large going to be awkward as all hell.

Tim looked down at him with a good-natured eye-roll. "I feel I may need to apologise for my wife again, John."

John found his eyes looking out to mother and son one more time, the way she leaned towards him as she spoke softly, too quietly for him to hear. "No apology necessary. Not to me, anyway. Poor Sherlock."

The two of them stared towards the two people curled over the table for a moment.

"Yes, quite right. Poor Sherlock."

**\- X -**

The knock at his door was so quiet he almost didn't hear it; then again he was already half-asleep, so it was almost a miracle that he'd heard it at all. John raised his hands to his eyes, pressing his palms to them and squinting over at the door as he called out a muffled,

"Yeah, y'can come in..."

The familiar hesitation, the slow turning of a doorknob; John instantly felt more awake, knowing as he did who would be on the other side of the door.

Sherlock waited on the threshold, once again still in his dinner clothes. "Did I wake you?"

John pushed himself with his palms so that he was half-sitting, leaning against the headboard and quickly becoming distinctly aware of the bare half-torso poking out from underneath the duvet. "Mm, no. Well, a bit. It's fine."

Sherlock glanced away for a moment. "Sorry."

"No, don't worry." They were both silent for a moment before John forced the words out. "You can come in past the doorway, you know."

Another moment of hesitation before Sherlock took two steps into the room and stood awkwardly in the darkness, seeming somewhat confused to find himself there at all. "I just wanted to say goodnight."

"Oh. Well, goodni-"

"Dinner was... enjoyable."

John nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, it was. The lasagne went down well."

The ghost of a smile flickered across Sherlock's half-shadowed face. "I'd hope so. Blood, sweat and tears went into making it."

John's own lips twitched. "Mostly blood."

"I think it added new realms of flavour, personally."

"A nice iron edge," John agreed, warmth starting to tingle in his hands at the ease of their banter, "metallic undertones."

Sherlock's eyes found his once more, his smile lessening until it was gone completely; John watched as it died, his own fading until they were simply gazing at each other in the dim light from the hallway with seemingly nothing more to say and yet a whole web of words stretching out between them. His mind flickered briefly over the possibility of it  _always_  being like this, stretches of silence that were never filled, moments in rooms dark enough that it was easy to hide. He wasn't sure if it was better like this. As Wanda had said, some things were best left unsaid, but with him and Sherlock... well. Nearly everything went unsaid. It was just how they were.

Perhaps how they would  _always_  be.

Finally Sherlock seemed to pull himself from the moment, straightening up and giving a brief nod in John's direction. "Well. I'll leave you to your sleep. Long day tomorrow."

The ball. Of course. "Yeah. Looking forward to it."

Sherlock took a reverse step towards the doorway, a contrast to the last time he had left John alone in this room; he seemed unwilling to turn his back. "You wouldn't if you'd been going to them since you were in nappies."

"Y'know, I was thinking that I should accessorise with a nappy just earlier today."

A surprised chuckle, quickly replaced with a frown. "That's an image I didn't need to see before bed."

John offered a tiny grin. "Enjoy your nightmares."

As Sherlock began to turn, ready to exit the room, John found the man's name slipping from his lips before he could do a thing to stop it.

"Sherlock?"

Though he didn't turn completely, Sherlock's head jerked slightly to indicate his attention.

John bit his lip. "I've... missed this."

For a moment the sandy-haired boy thought that Sherlock would remain silent, leave his room without another word; he forced himself to look away and towards the floor, embarrassed at this pathetic show of sentiment after such light-hearted small-talk.

Almost an entire minute passed before Sherlock's voice swept across the room, low and reluctant.

"And I'm glad you didn't leave."

When Sherlock finally shut the door quietly behind him, his footsteps treading their way lightly to his room, John was unsurprised to find his mind racing once more and the ability to fall asleep completely gone.

**\- X -**

The next day was a blur, the late afternoon even more so.

"Tim! Tim, where are my pearl earrings?"

"On the dresser, dear."

"No, no," Wanda moaned, her voice floating out of their bedroom door, into the hallway and creeping into John's bedroom as he stared in apprehension at the tuxedo laid out on the bed, "not the studs, the droplets! The ones I wore three years ago!"

Tim's voice was as calm as ever in response to his wife's obvious distress, walking out of the bathroom and towards the bedroom. "Perhaps they're in your jewellery box with the rest of your collection?"

"Careful, Mummy," Mycroft drawled from his own bedroom, the sound of a belt buckle clicking as he dressed, "if you wear the same earrings as 2011 Mrs. Benbury will most  _definitely_  start spreading rumours that you can't afford to buy yourself new jewellery anymore..."

"Please don't evoke a nervous breakdown from her before we even get there," Sherlock called sarcastically from somewhere downstairs, "you know how erratic her driving is when she's stressed."

"Don't be mean to your mother, she only wants to -"

"Found them," she sang out, "they were on the dresser!"

John slowly pulled his t-shirt over his head and reached reluctantly for the crisp white shirt that Mrs. Holmes had ironed earlier that day.

"Oh, well done darling."

Mycroft's voice grumbled from the hallway as made his way to the bathroom. "If she'd listened in the  _first_  place..."

"Stop your muttering and hurry up," Wanda admonished, the creaking of stairs signalling that she was now ready and no doubt about to hurry her youngest along to do the same, "we have to leave in fifteen minutes."

With a firm hand John quickly buttoned the shirt, his hands moving to take the charcoal-grey trousers and slipping them over his legs – they fit like a glove, there was no denying that it had been worth the embarrassment of going to Franco's to get fitted properly for his ensemble. The reminder of how long he had to get ready hurried him along, doing up the trousers and slipping his waistcoat on in lightning-speed, his fingers fumbling a little over the little buttons – it felt so odd to be dressed up like this, he'd never worn a tux in his life and it was almost like a total transformation to look at himself in the full-length mirror beside the set of drawers. He stared at his reflection in a humble sort of awe, fingers running over the silk of the silvery-grey tie he had yet to put on.

A light knock, a head peering around the door – John whirled around, panicking at the idea that Sherlock would see him before he'd completed the outfit ( _it's not your bloody wedding, Watson, for crying out loud!)_  and finding himself greatly relieved to see that Wanda had come back up the stairs and was now smiling at him with the sort of pride he had never seen directed at him before. It made his throat tight.

"Well, look at you," she gushed softly, walking around the door properly and revealing herself to be quite as beautiful as he could have ever imagined she could be; the pale green chiffon empire dress she wore skated the floor as she walked, the delicate pearl-detailed waistband shimmering as she reached out towards him and smoothed down his waistcoat – with the addition of her simple droplet pearl earrings and a thin pearl necklace (perhaps the one that Mycroft had worn once upon a time) she looked so wonderfully elegant and glowing with such understated class that, for a moment, John felt as if he could perfectly understand now the pride in her own eyes.

"I could say the same about you," he said sincerely, meeting her pale eyes with all the warmth he could muster. "You look absolutely radiant, Wanda."

"Don't make me cry, John, it took me forever to do my make up," she warned, though her eyes still seemed to glisten slightly, "but still, we need to get you finished up before I get too emotional. Here, let me do your tie for you."

He let her turn him back to the mirror, taking the tie from him and slipping it behind his neck; he reached up and twitched it until it lay flat under his collar, her small hands working away quickly as she flipped the material about with such dexterity and confidence that he was almost sure she must have done this before. He said as much. "I can tell this isn't your first time!"

She laughed, tilting her head to the side as she carefully tightened the knot for him. "Oh, no, I've been doing all of their ties for years. Mycroft and Sherlock eventually got sick of me babying them so they started insisting on doing it themselves, but Tim still lets me do his. And now I can do yours for you, too. See?" She moved out of the way, allowing him to see himself in the mirror. "Well now. Look at you. So handsome."

His cheeks flushed slightly at the compliment, his eyes trying to take in how different he looked and wondering if he would get used to it. Not that he'd probably wear one ever again. He tried for a positive comment. "I scrub up all right, don't I?"

"Oh, be away with you. Look at how the silver brings out your eyes. You'll devastate some hearts tonight, that's for certain!"

"Ha. Maybe." He twitched the tie slightly, straightening it as he watched the reflection of her in the mirror taking his jacket into her hands and holding it out behind him. John extended his arms out behind him and let her slide the satin-lined jacket over them, shrugging his shoulders and stretching his arms out in front of him so that it would sit properly; yes, Franco had done a good job. A  _very_  good job. He pulled it across him to do up the buttons, mildly amused when Wanda slapped his hands away and did it herself as she had no doubt once done for her two sons, both of whom were now downstairs; and then she stepped away, revealing the finished result and the both of them standing in silence for a few minutes as they looked over the result of their – well, Franco's – hard work.

With a little sniff Wanda took a step back and brushed her hand over her perfectly pulled-back hair, offering him a watery smile. "All right! You're all ready! Did you want to go downstairs and join the boys? We want to take a few photographs before we leave, so please make sure that Mycroft and Sherlock aren't already rolling around the floor attacking each other."

He smiled back, taking one last glance in his reflection before he nodded and started to leave the room. "All right. Time to go and face Sherlock's ridicule."

As he walked out into the hallway and sank his foot onto the first step, her voice followed him, so quiet he was unsure that he had heard correctly -

"Good luck..."

There was no time to think about it; he disregarded the comment and strolled down the stairs with a hand rising to smooth down his tie, eyes scanning the kitchen as he reached the bottom and seeing no one in there – he had started to head instinctively towards the living room when he heard a murmured voice coming from the conservatory, making him change his course and instead slowly approaching the room which was currently bathed in the beautiful golden glow of the early evening sun, the rich colour filtering out and into the dining room. Standing directly in the middle, his back to John, was undoubtedly Sherlock in the darkest of blacks, holding something out in front of him as he quietly spoke to himself and clearly unaware that he had company; John cleared his throat, starting to speak:

"You ready to get this party star-"

Sherlock had turned to face him, his hands lowering the pieces of paper he held between his fingers and looking momentarily so surprised that, had it been any other moment than this one, John would have no doubt laughed; as it happened John found that he was suddenly, without probable cause, left temporarily without enough oxygen in his lungs to even finish his sentence.

Then again, the cause was standing right in front of him.

John had never thought of Sherlock as particularly tall despite his own small height, yet in the obsidian jacket and trousers the man wore – black shirt, Cambridge-blue bow-tie, silver-blue satin waistcoat – he seemed to have stretched beyond all manner of appropriateness in the last half an hour to the point where John felt as if he himself were a veritable dwarf in comparison; rather than make Sherlock's slender form seem ungainly and fragile the jacket seemed to waterfall over his torso perfectly and simply accentuate his height, his wrists and long fingers further elongated and adding to the nineteen year old a sense of refinement that perhaps John had acknowledged before but, until now, never fully appreciated. The cut of the suit was flawless, the man underneath it even more so. It was impossible to deny and impossible to get the thought out of his head – Sherlock had never looked so  _beautiful_ , the word 'handsome' completely wasted on him; handsome implied something far too linear, too narrow, too up-and-down and obvious... and nothing was even remotely linear about this. Him. He flowed like a towering waterfall and was so fluid and dynamic even in his stillness that it almost hurt John to look at him and know that he was real. He didn't look real – the porcelain of his skin, the razor-sharp cheekbones, the eyes of ice heightened in their mercury depths against the midnight contrast of his suit, startling above the dash of colour from his tie and waistcoat. He looked ethereal.

The beating of John's heart under the layers of fabric was so strong he wondered hazily if Sherlock would hear it from where he stood.

Finally he dragged his eyes away from the form of his best friend and daringly met his gaze.

It was a mistake.

"Ooookay, you have to stop that now," John breathed, tearing his eyes from the heated stare and taking a step to the side – if only to remind himself that he  _could_  still move. "Just... stop that."

Sherlock's voice came out as a confused rumble. "I don't understand. I haven't done anything."

"Yep, yes, you're looking at me like that and you have to stop it now."

A shuffling of paper, a shifting of posture. John was staring at the table beside him like his life depended on it, unable to face that look again for the foreseeable future. "I'm not looking at you like  _anything_ , John. What's wrong with how I'm looking at you?"

Oh, the man was bloody ignorant to his own talent, so bloody ignorant. "Okay, remember what we talked about the last time we were at Alessandro's? About the whole... intensity thing?"

"...yes."

"Well, you're doing it now."

Amusement slipped against Sherlock's silken tones. "No I'm not."

"Yeah, trust me, you are. You  _still_  are, I can feel it on my... face."

"Then you're obviously wrong, John, because I'm assuredly  _not_  looking at your face." Surprised, John foolishly glanced up and saw that, indeed, Sherlock was not looking at his face; he was rather intently looking John up and down in probably much the same way that John had done just moments before: it made him feel utterly exposed and, in his mind, the stare was completely indecent. "Mm, my mother has exceptionally good taste. You scrub up rather well, don't you?"

John turned around on the spot, walking back towards the kitchen and then back again, the smile on his lips nothing to do with finding the situation funny and all to do with his own awkwardness. "All right, it doesn't matter that you're not directing it at my face, the point is that you're directing it  _at me_  and, quite frankly, it's making me feel all..." He threw his hands out in front of him. "Well, I don't have the word, but you should just try and stop it before I have to leave the room out of necessity."

Sherlock somehow seemed to understand that he should keep his distance, lingering in the conservatory and keeping his eyes trained away from John in a strange gesture of acquiescence; his words, however, reached John quite clearly. "I think the word you're looking for is  _uncomfortable_."

"Yes... no. I don't know."

"Any one of those would do, John." Sherlock no longer sounded amused. His voice was entirely flat as he brought the papers he held back up to eye-level. "Regardless, I'll be sure not to look at you anymore for the remainder of the evening. I wouldn't want to make you need to leave the room every time I enter it."

"I know it's not your fault," John tried, realising slowly that he had probably overreacted, "I just don't know how to... respond. To it. To you."

Though Sherlock still held the paper in front of his face, his eyes were not focused as he apparently considered John's words. The older man was not oblivious to the sheer effort that seemed to go into not looking at him; Sherlock was an observer. It was probably even more uncomfortable for him to  _not_  look at John than it was for John to be looked at.

Eventually the curly-haired genius spoke. "Is it because... is it more uncomfortable for you now because -"

"No," John said firmly, shaking his head and taking a step towards the conservatory before forcing himself to stand still, "no, it's not about that. It's not about that at all. I told you before, Sherlock, I'm just not used to people looking at me like that."

Finally Sherlock's resolve broke in two, his eyes skating over the page to come up and rest upon John's. The intensity was still there, though it was somewhat subdued. It was purely Sherlock's natural state. "I'm not people."

Never had a statement been more accurate. "No. No, you aren't, are you?" He found himself biting his lower lip as he thought about this, the truth of it. "You're not people at all."

Sherlock let the arm holding the papers fall to his side once more, his lips separating as he inhaled a breath in preparation for yet more words to stun and bamboozle John – yet it was to neither of their surprise to find the moment interrupted, tip-tapping on the stairs followed by a more casual thread of movement as both Wanda and Tim appeared at the bottom of the staircase, Wanda smiling brightly and Tim staring at his wife as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing; John turned to face them properly, feeling as though his face was on fire and suddenly thinking he knew  _exactly_  why Wanda had wished him luck and belatedly wishing she had at least tried to warn him properly that her son was going to take his breath away merely from wearing clothes.

The little wink she flashed him confirmed his suspicions. Tim saw the exchange and said nothing, instead opting for a topic far less awkward.

"Your mother would rather like to leave soon, but she's insisting on taking some photographs -"

"When we're old and grey and our sons have disappeared off to live their own lives, Timothy, photographs are all we'll have to remember then by. MYCROFT!"

A gentle clipping of feet on the wooden floor, a rather bored-looking Mycroft wandering into the room and revealing a suit very similar to Sherlock's only with a mossy green as the additional colour as opposed to the smoky, silvery blue; he noticed with a start that Mycroft's green was almost identical to the colour Mrs. Holmes was wearing, and that Tim was wearing colours very similar to his youngest son.

He was the odd one out.

"Oh, wonderful, is it time for photographic evidence?" Mycroft sighed and walked into the kitchen, coming back with a digital camera and handing it to his father. "How refreshingly different to every other year."

"Be quiet and go and stand with your brother," Wanda ordered, brushing past John and spreading a cloud of delicate perfume in her wake. "Such beautiful natural light coming in, it'd be a shame to waste it -"

"Excuse me, John, family photographer coming through." Tim smiled as he slipped past the smaller man, brandishing the camera with gentle enthusiasm as Wanda began issuing directives. "It's a dangerous job but somebody has to do it."

John watched as Mycroft and Sherlock stood awkwardly beside each other, neither one of them smiling despite their mother's attempts to cajole them into it; eventually Tim just started snapping pictures left, right and centre, not seeming to really know what he was doing but happy just the same. Eventually it reached a point where both boys started to complain, leading to Wanda going to stand in the middle of them both and giving a big enough smile for the both of them – John couldn't help but smile in response as he looked at them, even more so as Wanda gently started tickling Sherlock's side and was rewarded with the infinitely surprising and awkwardly endearing bubble of laughter that escaped from the boy's throat. Tim proved himself to be quick in his reflexes, finger hammering madly on the button until finally Sherlock moved away and demanded that he now take photographs to avoid being harassed by his 'eternally sadistic' mother.

John moved forward until he was at Sherlock's side. "Any good with that thing?"

As if to prove a point, Sherlock began pressing the button without even waiting to see if his subjects were ready, inspiring multiple cries and sighs of protest. Sherlock shot a small smile down at his best friend. "I prefer a natural photograph."

The grin spread across John's face like melted butter. "Me too. Quick, Mycroft's scratching his arse -"

"I am  _not_ ," Mycroft insisted sharply, removing his hand from behind him and shooting them both such an evil glare that a giggle burst free from John's lips before he could stop himself, "I was rearranging my jacket!"

"Code for 'my pants are up my bum'," Sherlock murmured in an aside to John, not quite loud enough for Mycroft to hear; another irrepressible giggle escaped from the sandy-haired young man's throat, turning away briefly as he covered his mouth with a curled fist and felt his face pinken from good humour.

"All right, we can't giggle, it's a very serious business," John managed to say in a quiet mutter back, turning his gaze back to an affronted-looking Mycroft, a beaming Wanda and a content-looking Tim. "Imagine the chafing if he were to let it go untouched."

"Oh, of course." Sherlock's small grin was almost infectious as he snapped more photographs, barely looking at what he was taking pictures of as he seemingly focused his entire attention on the so-called conversation. "I hope you remembered to use baby powder with your nappy tonight, John, otherwise you'll be quite as uncomfortable as my dear brother there."

He had forgotten about the nappy, oh  _damn_  it, he was giggling like a bloody schoolgirl - "Oh, oh, stop it now, we have to concentrate -"

"I mean it, John, it can get really raw down there if you're not careful..."

"Please, Sherlock!" He was practically gasping now and no doubt completely red in the face. "No more about nappy rash, no more about Mycroft's bum, I will  _wet_  myself!"

Mycroft seemed to perk up after hearing this, John now unable as he was to keep his voice quiet. "Perhaps we should take a litter tray with us, Mummy, it would seem that John has some trouble with his bladder."

Tim suddenly looked serious. "There's nothing funny about urinary incontinence, boys."

If there was a final straw, that was it; John was suddenly curled over in what could only be described as a raucous wheezing fit, Sherlock having to hand the camera to his mother as he too began to laugh, reaching out and placing a hand on John's shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world to use John to steady himself – John didn't care in the slightest, his own hand coming up to rest on Sherlock's lower arm as he tried to straighten his body and stop the gales of laughter that were threatening to just keep on coming -

A flash of light and a triumphant burst of noise. "AHA!"

And Sherlock was suddenly moving away from John and grabbing the camera from his victorious mother, Mycroft even cracking a reluctant smile at the situation as Wanda laughingly gave the camera to Tim and told him that this was the only moment they'd probably see such a sight and to quickly take a photograph of her and her boys, her arm reaching out and beckoning for John to join them and to accept that he was, now, one of them. As he stood beside Sherlock, with Wanda reaching behind her youngest son to pull him further into the photo and ensuring that he was more or less pressed against Sherlock's warm side - "we don't want to cut you in half, John!" - he wondered how it was possible to actually feel happiness in such concentrated doses, all in a continuous pulsing stream.

As he smiled at the camera without even needing to try, he decided that, yes, it was possible. Entirely possible.

**\- X -**

Wanda had not been exaggerating about the ball.

The driveway was a blaze of torches and sweeping lawns, the darkening sky made even more dramatic in the face of the flames and broad landscape; John was so swept up in the sheer magnificence of the lead-up that he barely even noticed the house that they were driving towards.

If you could even  _call_  it a house. The yellow-stone manor was a towering, turreted masterpiece of English architecture, huge sash windows adorning its front with – as Wanda had promised – impressive double doors that seemed to get far more grand and imposing the closer their car inched up the driveway. There was an impressive array of spires across its grand roof, though with the sky slipping closer and closer to night they were difficult to count and collate in his head... but why was he counting and collating spires?! Here he was, pulling up next to the most beautiful, regal house he had ever seen in his life and he was distracting himself by counting  _spires_?

Wanda turned around from the seat in front of his and gave him a massive smile. "So, what do you think? Was it everything you expected it to be?"

John stared from her to the house whilst slowly shaking his head, hand already on the handle of the door in his impatience to get out and properly appreciate its majesty. "Your words... did not do it justice. It's amazing! How on earth do you  _hire_  this place?"

"Oh, well," she said, turning away and gathering her little clutch purse to her chest and waiting for her husband to pull up beside one of the many valets –  _valets!_  - waiting to take their car and park it for them, "Lady Brooke Londonderry, who owns this house, she once lived in the village before she married up and above her station -"

"Wanda," Tim chided, "you're gossiping."

"You're one to talk," she responded sagely, placing her own hand on the door handle as they stopped the car. "Anyway, as I was saying – she married above what anyone would have ever expected of her and now she's the lady of this estate, alongside her rather...  _wealthy_  husband, Lord Benedict Londonderry."

"Careful, Mother, your judgement is showing," Sherlock said dryly from beside John, nodding towards his friend for him to open the car door. "John will get the wrong idea and think you're no better than a flapping fishwife."

"No he wouldn't – John, you don't think that, do you?" All this as she got out of the car and slammed the door behind her, eyes wide as she stared through the back window at his grinning face.

He pushed the door open and climbed out after her, shaking his head and turning to stare up at the towering mansion in front of him. "Of course not, you don't flap at all – blimey, how many bedrooms does this place have?!"

Not looking wholly pleased with his answer, Wanda turned to stand beside him and gazed up at the house, pursing her lips. "Hmm. I'm not sure. Probably better to ask Tim – Tim!" Her husband was slowly making his way around to the other side of the car, handing his keys to the smiling valet. "Do you know how many bedrooms Brooke and Benedict have in this monstrosity?"

"Y'know, dear, just yesterday you were telling him that if you could live anywhere in the world it would be here," he reminded her with a smile in John's direction, "so I'm not sure if calling it a mon-"

"Bedrooms, Tim, how many bedrooms does it have?"

He gave up, giving a half-hearted shrug and coming up beside his wife to slide a light arm around her waist. "Eleven, I think."

"Jesus," John said weakly, his eyes scanning the building with renewed awe, "and I had to share a bedroom with Harry until we were ten."

Sherlock walked and stopped beside him, holding a folder with what John assumed to be sheet music and his fingers wrapped around the handle of his violin case; a small surge of warmth shot through John's stomach at the thought that he was going to see Sherlock perform for the first time that evening, wondering if he was really as good as his mother said he was or if it was just the rose-tinted glasses of a loving matriarch.

"Well," Sherlock said, eyes fixed on the double doors ahead of them, "ten years stuck in the same bedroom as you – that'd do it."

John's brow wrinkled. "Do what?"

"I believe that my charming brother is insinuating that you are the reason your sister prefers the fairer sex," Mycroft said from beside his parents, glancing down the line to give a small smirk at the shortest man in the row, "or something to that effect, certainly."

John narrowed his eyes as he looked up at his so-called friend. "You're a bastard."

"And you turn girls into lesbians. This isn't the time to start throwing around insults, John, I assure you that I have many,  _many_  more up my sleeve."

"Boys, stop your bickering," Wanda hissed as she and Tim moved in front of them in order to follow the small line of people entering the house, frowning at Sherlock's little smile of pleasure for getting the last word, "or at least save it for after the ball."

John glared half-jokingly at Sherlock as the taller boy passed to follow Mycroft. "We're not done here, Holmes."

Sherlock shrugged, his little smile twitching as he stepped cleanly in front of John and glanced back at him. "I would hope not,  _Watson._ "

And that was the last time he saw his friend for the next two hours.

**\- X -**

Never before had John had quite so much champagne, and never before had he known was it was to feel completely and utterly out of his depth.

The interior of the house was, without a doubt, the most breathtaking setting he had ever laid eyes on – in pictures, in real life, even in the entire breadth of his imagination he had never been so completely overwhelmed with the richness and illustriousness of his surroundings quite like he was at that moment. He had walked awkwardly behind Wanda, Tim and Mycroft through an entrance hall unlike anything he had ever seen before, crystalline marble floors and delicate crystal chandeliers, a decadent double staircase covered in a deep red carpet that looked so thick that John felt relatively confident that if he were to jump on it he'd probably bounce back up by at  _least_  a few inches; they were being led by a man who looked terribly like a maitre d' through an odd alcove underneath the staircases and, despite all that he had seen so far, he had genuinely not expected to feel quite as small and as awed as he did upon entering the room that had been their destination all along.

The music, the sound of people and the clinking of glasses were the first things he noticed – he realised later that this was most likely a response to the sheer shock of it all, a culture shock, a lack of everything that he recognised from his own life and the addition of everything he had never sought out or pined for. There were richly-dressed couples all over the hall, talking in small groups and laughing gaily as they accepted tall flutes of champagne from straight-backed waiters, the gentle melody of a grand piano playing in the very centre of the room on a raised platform drifting in and out of their conversations as if it were of little consequence. There were at least a hundred people in there already, and the ballroom – though stunning to view and large by any standards of a room – was surely only big enough for one hundred and fifty at most. John found that he was almost latching himself onto to the back of Mycroft's tails in order to stay with the family-minus-one, feeling almost like a child in the wake of all the things he was seeing and was going to experience.

The ballroom itself was, though small on the scale of how big the house was, glorious. The chandeliers, the first things that anyone would notice upon entering this particular room, were in a row of five across the ceiling and seemed to be on a lower setting than John would have expected; though he couldn't quite explain why he found that it made them even more mesmerising to gaze upon, somehow in their dimmer beams making the little shimmering crystal droplets sparkle their rainbow cacophony with a defiant determination, stubborn in their conviction to render the viewer momentarily speechless. John certainly wasn't immune to their charm, his eyes fixating upon them as he followed Mycroft, Wanda and Tim through the winding maze of people, only able to tear his gaze away when they stopped in front of two people in order for Wanda and Tim to express their greeting.

But John had more to look at. The wooden floors – he had been expecting marble – were a rustic, deep oak that looked as if they'd been there for hundreds of years, highly polished and yet worn from hours and hours of dancing from days long gone; travelling up from the floors to the walls – barely  _any_  wall to speak of when so much of the room was made up of large, arched windows and doors edged with thick, dark golden curtains leading out onto a seemingly endless veranda lit with netted fairy lights and candles in fish bowls dotted around the small, glass tables cast around the wooden decking – he found himself staring at a colour so rich and vibrant, a textured burgundy like he had never seen before (had it been repainted before they'd arrived, perhaps?) with solid gold-painted, detailed borders rising in gentle waves across the entirety of the room. It should have made the atmosphere dark and dreary, such deep colours, but instead John found that it simply heightened the majesty of the room and made him feel as if he were dirty simply for standing there.

Then he remembered his tuxedo and felt a little better.

Wanda gestured to him from where she stood, flushed already, beside the three people that they had stopped to talk to. He found himself looking upon possibly the most beautiful, unspeakably elegant couple in the room: the woman, petite and slender with rich red hair and large, piercing blue eyes, wearing a strapless taffeta ballgown almost the exact colour of the walls and delicate little garnet drops from her tiny ears; the man, tall and dark-haired with eyes so deep and dark they were almost onyx, immeasurably the most good-looking sod that John had ever come across. He looked more like a statue than a real person, enough that John wanted to give him a good, hard poke to make sure he did in fact exist and, perhaps, to give him a rather large bruise to make him feel better about himself. The man seemed distracted, gazing out across the crowd with a small smile playing on his lips; the woman, however, was eyeing John over the rim of her champagne glass as if trying to read him.

More likely trying to read his bloodline.

"John, I'd like to introduce you to Lady Brooke Londonderry, the lady of the house. Brooke and I went to the same school," she explained lightly, the look in her eyes full of meaning – that is, telling him to shut up and not say a single word about what she'd said before entering the house. "A few years below me, if I remember correctly?"

"Yes," Brooke replied, her voice carrying clearly across the hustle and bustle and reaching John without having to raise her voice even slightly. "Wanda and I go rather a way back."

"Oh, well." John stepped past Mycroft and offered his hand to shake, unsure if this was the way to do things; the woman didn't seem even slightly put-out, taking his hand and shaking it delicately. "It's very nice to meet you."

"John is our Sherlock's best friend at university," Wanda said proudly, though John had a sneaking suspicion what she was  _actually_  proud of was the fact that Sherlock had a friend rather than the fact that John was... well. John. He imagined it was probably the first time she'd ever been able to say such a thing. "He's here as Sherlock's plus one."

John looked at her in surprise; was that true? Did Sherlock have a plus one? Was John it?

"How lovely," Brooke said smoothly, raising her glass to her lips and taking a small sip. "I was rather expecting him to bring a lady friend with him, if I'm to be honest, after you called me up to let me know to expect one more guest from the Holmes party."

Wanda's cheeks seemed to flush further still. "Oh, no. No. Sherlock's far too busy with his doctorate to have any loftier pursuits going on in the background."

A  _doctorate_? John was learning all sorts tonight.

"Well, at least he has a friend, no? Benedict," Brooke said with a gentle press of her manicured fingertips to her husband's forearm, "meet our dear Sherlock's friend, John... I do apologise, what was your surname?"

"Watson," he said, feeling distinctly uncomfortable to have the dignified man's eyes so suddenly upon him, "John Watson."

"John, this is my husband, Lord Benedict Londonderry."

The two of them shook hands, the man quickly looking John up and down before nodding briefly.

"Good strong name, that. Good to meet you. So you're a friend of Sherlock's, are you?" John nodded. "Glad to hear it. Looking forward to hearing him play later?"

"Yeah. Yes. It's actually my first time -"

"Really?" Brooke's eyebrows were raised, looking quite genuinely surprised. "How delightful. You've never heard anything quite like it."

"That's what I said," Wanda interjected with another proud smile.

"The boy has talent," Benedict remarked, looking away and towards the crowd again, "could make a go of it professionally if he wanted to. I could get him involved in a few things, have some people contact him."

"We have him here every year that we can," Brooke confided quietly to John, as if Wanda, Tim and Mycroft couldn't hear a word she was saying. "The first time I heard him, when he was a mere six years old, I was blown away. I insisted Wanda bring him along to the next ball and let him have a taste of infamy."

"I'm sure he appreciates it," John lied, knowing as he did that the very last thing Sherlock wanted to be doing that evening – other than actually being there – was performing. "I'm looking forward to it."

"Well!" Brooke gave him what he assumed was a genuine smile, a small flutter of fingers at her side revealing her dismissal of them before she'd even said the words. "Do enjoy yourselves beforehand. There's plenty of champagne and I think the canapés should be coming out soon. Drink! Dance! Be merry! And  _do_  come and say goodbye before you leave, Wanda, won't you?"

Wanda gave her the sweetest smile she could possibly muster. "Of course. I wouldn't dream of leaving without doing so."

"Wonderful." Brooke turned slightly, already distracted, quite like her husband. "Until later, then."

As Wanda dragged her family away, baring her teeth in smiles as she passed various small groups of people, John heard her hiss quite loudly to her husband:

"I don't know  _how_  I was ever friends with that woman... it's like nails on a chalkboard!"

**\- X -**

The next hour and a half flew by in a mass of introductions, people gushing about Sherlock's raw talent and copious amounts of champagne. John had already had three glasses due to sheer need of replenishment (who ate  _caviare_  anymore, really?) and was very much feeling it go to his head, warm and constant bursts of confidence flushing through his system and making him rather chatty, more and more so with every group of people they came across. He had met a girl on his journey, the daughter of one of Tim's work colleagues, who was starting her medical course later that year if she got good A Levels, and she had asked him plenty of questions about his experiences so far. She hadn't laughed in his face when she'd told her that he was taking a pre-medical year, instead sharing her own stories of essay hell and her hate for Physics and the fact that she had to take it; she was rather charming, if he was to tell the truth, and he was rather disappointed when Mycroft had sauntered over and asked him to come and meet some other family that he would forget the name of within minutes of walking away from them – not that he was so rude as to not care, simply that he couldn't possibly remember  _everyone's_  names. He had bid her farewell with a promise to find her again, perhaps for a dance, and had gone over to meet Wanda and Tim's accountant and his wife with a smile and spring to his step.

As Mycroft and John drifted away from a rather heated discussion about gas versus electric, Mycroft did not even attempt to beat around the bush.

"That girl you were speaking to earlier... are you planning on dancing with her later as you promised?"

John rolled his eyes. "Bit rude of you to listen."

"I wasn't listening. I merely overheard."

The twinkle of the piano played lightly into John's ears as they circled the room. It was very pleasant. "Of course you did. Well, in answer to your question, if I happen to come across her again before I leave I can't see why I wouldn't. She was nice."

"Mm, yes, very nice indeed. Pretty. Friendly. Normal. Just your cup of tea."

John did not like the delicate threads of mockery lingering beneath Mycroft's seemingly innocuous words. "She was nice, Mycroft. I'm not saying I'm going to marry her."

Mycroft turned through one of the large doors, leading them out onto the veranda – the air outside was warm, full of moisture from rain that was yet to fall. "No. Just have a little fun before you head back home, isn't that right?"

The sigh that escaped John's lips tasted like champagne. "Get it out of your system, Mycroft. Before either one of us explodes."

"I'm not sure I know what you mean."

"Yes you do," John argued, though did not feel as irritated as he perhaps would have done a few days before. "What, you want to have 'that conversation' again? Because I still don't know. I'm still unsure."

"I'm still utterly in the dark about what you could possibly -"

"I still don't know what I'm doing with Sherlock." There. He'd said it. "We've made up, we're friends again, it's all well and good and I'm very happy with how things are turning out. That doesn't mean I've decided on anything."

Mycroft tilted his chin up slightly. "I see. So your plan is to cavort with girls until you've made up your mind?"

"Why do I get the feeling you're judging me?"

"Oh, I'm not judging you, John." The younger man could not tell if he was lying. "I'm merely asking so that, if that  _is_  the case, I can keep a weather eye out for my brother."

John was quiet for a few moments. "I'm not trying to be a dick about it, Mycroft, it's just still a bit of a mess in my head. I haven't had a defining moment either way and I just... yeah. I don't want to make a decision only to regret it later."

He did not miss Mycroft's eyes sliding down to rest upon his face as he stared out at the darkened expanse of lawn in front of him. "Would you regret simply remaining friends with him?"

"What? No, of course not."

"But you might regret attempting to take things further?"

Even the suggestion of it still made John's head spin. Though that could have been the champagne. "Well, obviously. I know it's not important to everyone else, apparently, but I'm still not gay.  _And I know_ ," he stressed, turning to face Sherlock's older brother and meeting his stare, "that you can fall in love with someone despite their appendages and whatever, believe me when I say I've heard that  _multiple_  times recently. But it's just not that simple for me. Not just because he's a... man, but he's my best friend too. I could potentially fuck up something which is  _really_  important to me because I force myself to do something I don't feel like I can do."

Mycroft seemed to genuinely think on this, his head leaning slightly to the side. "Mm. I can see your point, as much as it pains me to say it. It would be far more damaging to make  _that_  mistake than continue on as you are and have some semblance of a decent friendship."

"More than decent," John clarified, looking out towards the grass again, "way more than just decent."

"I see."

He wasn't sure if Mycroft really did see or if he was just realising that John was reaching a point where he wouldn't offer anything new to the conversation. He figured it was the latter. Mycroft wasn't an idiot.

"We'd better go inside."

John glanced up again, frowning slightly. "Are you cold?"

"No," Mycroft said casually, slipping his hands inside his pockets and turning slowly to face the interior of the house once again, "but unless you plan on missing Sherlock's performance we should probably make our way back to my parents."

The performance! Of course. The performance. He had been so distracted by company, posh alcohol and a mass of burgundy that he had almost forgotten about it; how utterly ridiculous when it had been all he had been thinking about on the way here. He wouldn't miss it, Mycroft knew he didn't want to, so when he strode past Mycroft and into the ballroom it was hardly a surprise to either of them.

They found Tim and Wanda easily enough; they were standing at the front of the crowd centred around the raised stage area, murmuring to each other as if they'd quite forgotten that anyone else was there, though as soon as Wanda saw her son and John walking towards them she brandished her arms violently mid-air, beckoning them over with a fire in her eyes and a determined smile on her face.

"There you are!" she exclaimed, reaching out and pulling them both to stand between her and Tim. "We thought you'd got lost!"

"Sorry about the dull conversation earlier," Tim apologised quite sincerely, glancing to his left as if he knew that the instigators of said conversation were nearby, "but we always seem to get into it no matter where we meet them. Very nice people but  _very_  intense about household bills."

"So, what is Sherlock playing tonight?" Mycroft asked, sounding very much as if he did not care at all. "A song of his own composing?"

Wanda shook her head, craning her neck to see if she could see Sherlock's curly head anywhere in the crowd. "No, he's playing something by Ludinvinci... or Ludopico..."

"Ludovico, dear," Mr. Holmes corrected gently. "He bought you his album for Christmas last year, remember?"

Wanda was saved the embarrassment of an excuse by the sudden hush of the room around them, signalling that something of import was about to happen; John felt his palms start to sweat as if nervous, craning his neck much as Mrs. Holmes had done earlier though considering he was an inch shorter than she was it was rather pointless. He didn't have long to wait, though.

Lord Londonderry stepped up onto the platform to tumultuous applause, his head bowing in respectful nods at the welcome before he raised his large hands up and waited for the noise to die down, his dark eyes scanning the crowd at large before allowing a wide smile to crease the corners of his eyes as he opened his arms out.

"Welcome, ladies and gentleman, to the annual Goring Spring Ball. My name is Benedict Londonderry and, for those who are blissfully unaware, I am your host for this evening!"

More applause; John slapped his hands together three times before dropping them again, his impatience already starting to thread its way through him.

"We've reached that truly fine point in the evening where it's time to take a few moments in order to appreciate the finest things we've cultivated over the years; it's no surprise to any of you, I'm sure, when I say that for the twelfth time in hosting this wonderful occasion we've managed to snag yet again one of the most talented, inspiring,  _youthful_  musicians to ever have been born out of Goring and it is certainly a pleasure for me to be able to introduce you to him now. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the performance area someone I'm sure you all recognise by now – the brilliant, accomplished and undeniably awe-inspiring..." he paused for effect, "...Sherlock Holmes!"

The crowd began to applaud once more - John's own oddly numb hands were on auto-pilot, clapping fiercely together as he watched the crowd to the left of the platform part, first a small man in a white suit ascending the steps and walking calmly over to the white grand piano directly in the centre towards the back and, finally, two hours after he had last seen him, the curly-haired boy-genius taking two of the four steps at a time and gliding across the stage as if he were quite as at home up there as he was in front of his microscope; Sherlock seemed completely nonplussed as he stopped in front of the tall, metal music stand already set up, his violin in one long hand and his bow and sheet music in the other. He did not look out toward the crowd as he placed the sheets of music out in front of him, layered on top of each other; it was only as he took a few steps to his right towards the microphone than he finally looked out a the mass of people eagerly awaiting his performance, his eyes first scanning the room and then travelling over the four people standing directly at the front of the stage.

His voice was loud through the speaker system, loud and low.

"Tonight I am accompanied by Lucas Halloway on the piano -" he paused as everyone applauded, a flash of impatience in his eyes as he waited for it to die down, " - and, for your pleasure, will play for you an arrangement of Ludovico's Divenire. Thank you."

Sherlock took the few steps back to the music stand and waited a few moments once more for the applause to die down, his eyes focused completely on the sheet music in front of him. Slowly he raised the beautiful wooden instrument to his throat, resting the side of his jaw very lightly against the chinrest, seemingly completely involved before he'd even started playing. Lucas Halloway, taking his lead from Sherlock's ready-and-waiting pose, began to let his undoubtedly talented fingers fly across the keys.

But that was irrelevant. It was all to become irrelevant.

The moment Sherlock's bow drew across the very first string, John was irrevocably lost to everyone but the man on the stage.

It could have been for any number of reasons. He probably wasn't the only one who noticed the subtle changes in the dark-haired genius's body language or the palpable tension which filled the huge room from the very first time that bow met instrument, the premier note looping its way across the space between bodies and swirling through the endless heat of bodies until it reached the delicate whorl of an ear, hundreds of ears, the very vibrations of the sound coursing their way through heated veins and down to the epicentre of a place within John's self that he could not quite put a name to. He was sure he couldn't be alone in seeing the lucid, languid movement of Sherlock's arms as he dragged the horsehair across synthetic strings, the muscles in his hands rising and falling with their constant dynamism – in his prime position in front of the raised performance area John was almost achingly aware of the grace in which his friend teased the violin, his eyes tracing the fluidity in Sherlock's sway and the flutter of precise, demanding fingers against the solid neck of the instrument almost as if it were an absolute necessity not to miss a single moment of the genius and his ingenuity.

It was like being bathed in sunlight – that was the closest thing that John could associate to the feeling flooding through him, though in his experience the strongest emotion he could describe in that instance was a wonderful sort of contentment: that didn't reach far enough. It was intoxicating, enthralling, evocative – how had he never demanded to hear Sherlock play before? He could feel his skin tingling from the sensation of the notes crossing the space between them, utterly absurd as they were mere vibrations, soundwaves, but it was so much more than that because John was ready to swear that the sound of Sherlock taunting and tressing the bow over strings brought about in him the same trembling lack of comprehension as the icy stare that he now so longed to have on him, only him, only  _ever_  him -

And then they were, locked on his, so briefly that John wondered if he had imagined it – but no, there was no one else who could evoke that sort of fire within him, no one else who could make him feel the way he was feeling and he couldn't even remember the girl's name, had there even been a girl anyway? Had there ever been anyone but  _him_?

A hand was suddenly reaching for his, fingers wrapping around his hand and squeezing; he did not need to look to know that Wanda had tears running down her face as she watched her youngest wreak devastating artistry over the heads of these people who did not deserve to listen, nor did he need to hear the words she was not speaking as she gently caressed the back of his hand with her thumb in silent, maternal comfort: the message was clear.

_I understand._

And just like that, it was over. Silence fell over the ballroom and John was left so very full and so very hollow all at once as Sherlock let the bow drop to his side and the lulling piano ceased its pattering, the tall genius stepping forward without even so much as a smile, cheeks flushed as he gave a small bow as the applause thundered around the room:  _encore_ , they cried, laughing, drinking their champagne,  _encore, encore!_  - but there was to be no encore. Sherlock Holmes would not play for this crowd again, at least not this year. He took the sheet music from the stand and instantly turned on his heel after what looked like a very small jerk of his head sent in the direction towards his family, walking past Lucas Halloway with a brief word of thanks as he jogged down the stairs and back through the crowd who parted to let him through and reached out to him in equal measures.

John looked at Wanda for the first time since Sherlock had begun playing, seeing the streaks of saline drying on her cheeks and the knowing smile . He didn't even have to say a word.

She leaned towards him. "Sherlock likes to leave after his performance, so I can guarantee there's already a car waiting for him outside."

John waited for this to settle into his system so that he could properly understand. "A car. There's a car waiting to drive him home?"

Wanda nodded. "One of Mycroft's lot."

The two of them stared at each other for a few moments before she raised her eyebrow, looking at him as if he'd quite lost his mind.

"Well what are you waiting for, you silly boy? Do you want him to leave without you?"

**\- X-**

If John had been under the misapprehension that Sherlock would be happy about his catching a ride home with him, he soon discovered that he was sorely mistaken.

The car ride home was almost completely silent. John had had no idea what to say as he'd stopped, breathless from running all the way to the front of the towering building, clutching onto the open car door as Sherlock had half-glanced out without even the smallest show of surprise in seeing him. He'd climbed in next to his friend with a thousand words hanging uselessly on the tip of his tongue, words that had dissolved the moment that Sherlock had turned his head to look out of the window as they pulled away, leaving John to stare at the boy for a moment before turning his own face to look out at the sky that looked about ready to explode.

Much like John had been.

An hour of silence later – oh, well, other than the awkward moment where John had told Sherlock that he was really quite good at playing the violin and Sherlock had simply looked at the car seat in front of him, rolled his eyes and then continued to stare outside – they arrived outside of the Holmes' cottage, the sky that had been threatening to explode already having shattered the blue skies of earlier in the day and rained hard and fast in the last half an hour, enough that the path leading to the front door seemed to be one huge puddle and completely impossible to avoid. Sherlock had been out of the car like a shot, lithe and graceful as he had darted across the puddle whilst seemingly not even  _touching_  the water with his feet – his keys were out and in the door before John had even climbed out of the car, leaving the smaller man to sigh in frustration and splash through the path-puddle without a second thought of his poor, beautiful trousers as he just managed to get to the door before the fierce wind blew it shut on him.

The words had found their way back to his lips before he'd even closed it behind him.

"All right, what have I done now?"

Sherlock had already taken off his shoes and left them by the door, throwing his keys onto the kitchen counter and shrugging with all the nonchalance of his father's natural state of being. "Absolutely nothing, John. You've done nothing at all."

"Right." John shucked off the shoes he had borrowed from Tim and kicked them gently to the side with his sock, stepping off of the doormat and allowing his eyes to rise and look directly at Sherlock's half-turned face. "So why the silence in the car? Not even a word. Just in a bad mood, or are you lying to me and I've done something to offend you without even meaning to?"

Sherlock's eyebrow arched up, not even having to process the list John had thrown at him. "You haven't offended me. I'm not in a bad mood. I'm not lying to you."

"Okay. Great. So... you're just not talking to me?"

A roll of eyes, the taller boy turning to make his way up the stairs. "I am talking to you, John. I'm talking to you right now."

Two steps at a time and Sherlock was already at the top of the stairs before John had even reached the bottom; a growl of irritation escaped John's lips as he made his way up, his mind already prepared for the obvious tension-fuelled argument they were clearly about to have. "Well, talk to me some more, then. Did you have fun tonight?"

Sherlock was in the bathroom, the tap running and the door slightly ajar; his voice carried out, still sounding so frustratingly calm and centred that John began to genuinely wonder if it was his over-active mind creating problems that weren't really there. "A barrel of laughs."

"Where were you?"

"Oh," Sherlock said airily, his shadow moving against the wall outside in the dark hallway only slightly lit by the crack of light coming from the room which the genius currently occupied, "round and about. Had to have a word with Lucas about tempo. Had a very interesting conversation with a Baroness about joining some sort of orchestra."

Maybe John really was going mad. Maybe he had completely lost it. Maybe Sherlock was the sane one here. "Okay. Good."

Silence; the tap was still running.

"Do you want to know about my night?"

"Of course!" Sherlock was suddenly out of the bathroom, the light still on and giving enough of a glow that they could see each other; John saw the towel in Sherlock's hand, the mess of hair from where he'd obviously towel-dried it from the downpour outside. "Tell me all about it."

And that was when John noticed it, the oddity in the situation, the reason that he was still considering the idea that something was wrong; Sherlock had not looked at him the entire journey home and still had yet to look at him now. No matter what had gone on between them, no matter the tension, they'd always maintained some sort of eye-contact – fleeting at times, perhaps, but still very much there. It was the only way that Sherlock knew how to be and it was the only way that John could possibly try and read what his friend was truly saying – it was an important part of their communication process and it was undeniably, uncomprehendingly missing.

So.

"All right. Let me tell you. Tonight I met a lot of very rich, very boring people. I drank a lot of champagne, heard a lot of very nice things about you and ended up chatting to a girl who I promised to dance with if I saw her again."

Sherlock's eyes flickered slightly but did not meet his. He simply stood there, his hands playing with the damp towel.

"Then Mycroft cornered me outside and asked me if I'd thought anymore about how I felt about you and what I planned to do."

Sherlock's hands stilled on the towel.

"I told him, very reasonably, that I had no idea what I was going to do and that I would rather not make any rash decisions and end up screwing up a friendship that actually means quite a lot to me – quite a lot, Sherlock – at which point he let it go and, realising it was nearly time for your performance, we walked back inside."

Sherlock's voice was very tight as he spoke. "You've... thought about it? Considered it?"

"Yes." Well, he'd said it now. He might as well carry on. "Yep, I had a very nice phone call with my sister about it, actually. As it turns out I had a  _lot_  to think about and I spent the five days you spent not being my friend thinking of nothing  _but_  that."

Sherlock could still not meet his gaze, nor could he seem to move. His hands were still gripping the towel. "I don't... understand. You told me..."

"Well, let me finish my story first, shall I? So, tonight. We walked back into the ballroom and joined your mum and dad at the front of the little performance area and we waited for you to come on stage. You did, very gracefully by the way, and then you introduced the pianist and the song and – well. You know. You started to play."

Sherlock took a small, almost unnoticeable step back. "Yes."

John could not remember the moment that his hands had curled into gentle fists. "And then, Sherlock... then..." He could not for the life of him think of how to phrase it, how to explain the sheer  _rush_  of emotion and the defining moment when he had realised exactly what it was he had been waiting for, just as Harry had said. Just as everybody had said. "You started playing the violin and then..."

One word; the only word. "John."

John's eyes had not left Sherlock's face the entirety of the time he had been speaking. "Y'know, I think I know why you weren't talking to me now. I think I know why you wouldn't say a word to me."

"John -"

"Because that's how you work, isn't it? When you don't want to say something, admit something. If people keep asking you push yourself further and further away, rooting yourself deeper and deeper into the sand until there's nothing of you left. But  _silence_..." It was all coming together now. In a haze. In a flash. In a storm. "If people leave you alone, if they let you mull it over and stew in it until you're finally so full of words you can't possibly hold them back anymore -"

" _John."_

" - that's when you break. That's when it comes out. That's when you tell the truth."

Sherlock raised his face up, eyes looking to the ceiling, avoiding, eternally, infinitely  _avoiding_.

"And that... was what you were doing with me. You were being silent. You were waiting me out. You... knew. You  _know_."

John's heart was almost uncontrollable in his chest. This was it, then. This was going to be the moment. It was too far gone to just walk away now.

"You knew  _exactly_  what would happen when you played tonight. You knew it was either going to go one way or another. You were just too scared to find out which."

Sherlock finally let his head drop, his arms falling to his sides, his eyes skating down until they came to rest reluctantly, knowingly, in all his admissions onto John's.

Too late. Too soon. Too complicated.

It was John's turn to step back, to step away. It was useless. If Sherlock was too scared then John... well. Where did that leave him?

Back at square one. "Fine. We're both too scared." His lips curved up into a humourless smile, his shoulder raising in a sharp shrug as he backed away and towards his bedroom door. "Let's leave it there, then, shall we? I'll pack and leave tomorrow. This was clearly the mistake I was trying to avoid and now it's... done. I realise that now."

Sherlock did not follow John's movements; instead he seemed to simply accept John's words, accept his final rejection. His shoulders dropped, his fist grasped tighter at the towel and he walked towards his own bedroom without a single glance back.

Because if you were really going to move forward, there was no looking back.

As the dark-haired teenager wrapped his hand around the doorknob, slowly twisting it as he had twisted the one to John's room the night before, his voice came out as stiff and as deep as the first time John had ever heard it through the speakers of his laptop two months ago.

"Goodnight, John."

And then the door was open and just as quickly, just as quietly, closed.

The perfect metaphor.

**\- X -**

It took precisely forty-five seconds.

Standing on the threshold, John stared into empty room in front of him and began to think.

As it turned out, there wasn't too much to think about.

Turning on the spot, heart hammering, breath hitching, thoughts reaching a point where they no longer had a place in this he took a defiant step forward – but he didn't have to take any more steps now. The one step was enough.

Sherlock was already standing there. The towel was still in his hand.

Their eyes met.

He couldn't really remember the details of how it happened. He knew that there had been a sigh, or maybe a whisper, perhaps closer to a rumble –  _John_  – and that he had been rendered incapable of being responsible for his actions. He knew at some stage during the last few seconds that Sherlock had dropped the towel to the floor, though he couldn't be sure if it had been whilst the darker-haired man had taken the last few steps to close the space between them or before that. It wasn't important. There was nothing of any import in those last few seconds. The only thing that mattered, the only thing that he really knew,  _truly_  knew, was that when Sherlock had stopped dead just inches from him it had been  _John_  that had reached out and grabbed the front of Sherlock's damp shirt,  _John_  that felt as if he had a blazing inferno trapped within his body,  _John_  that had pulled Sherlock unforgivingly down to his level until his lips ardently, painfully, achingly pressed hard against Sherlock's,  _John_  that had breathed out a sigh that sounded so very much like the name of the man he did not know until that night that he needed so very much... needed, and adored, and perhaps even loved.

He couldn't remember the details. The details weren't important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: For your viewing pleasure... Londonderry Manor.**


	41. Like This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: Psst. PSST. Hey, guys? I know you're busy but... well, I just thought you might want to read this chapter I just wrote... y'know, if you want to. No pressure. NO PRESSURE. <3**
> 
> **Thank you for the amazing response to the last one; seriously, I never expected so much love or so many wonderful comments, I'm genuinely overwhelmed. THANK YOU. I LOVE YOU.**
> 
> **I've seriously been thinking about how awesome it would be for this to be turned into a web series somehow. Y'know, raise money on Kickstarter or something. I work in London so I know the area, the shots would be easy enough to get in Greenwich etc... but yeah, crazy dream. Or, if a web series wouldn't work - it is a bloody long piece of fanfiction - maybe just a really long, intense trailer? That'd be pretty badass.**
> 
> **ANYWAY. Read and enjoy, and as ever... well, y'know. I love comments. Comments are like oxygen. Oxygen and love. In written form. Mm. Yes. LOVE.**

**Chapter Forty-One**

It was, for all intents and purposes, Sherlock's first kiss.

He didn't count his attempt at breaking John's resolve to maintain their friendship as his first; in his mind the ideology behind a kiss was that it was something to be shared between two people holding a similar regard for each other, something intimate that was reciprocated on both ends. The pushing of his lips against John's in Greenwich Park had not been an act of affection or romance, rather it had been a desperate act of trying to sever ties with a man who had been so very stubborn, so very determined that Sherlock had seen no other possible way of convincing him that things could not simply 'go back to normal'. Because none of it had been normal for Sherlock. None of it had been par for the course or an experience he was at all familiar with. The whole situation had been littered with 'firsts' and now, here he was, standing in the hallway of his home with John grabbing fistfuls of his shirt between his very capable fingers and dragging him down to give him his first taste of what it was like to have his feelings reciprocated.

To compare it to what he had done in the park would have been like comparing logic and sentiment.

He did not know what he was doing, but he thought that perhaps that was all right considering John seemed to know  _exactly_  what to do. The lips on his were hard, insistent, the forte at the end of a crescendo that had stretched on for what felt like far too long; it was frightening, exhilarating and not unlike standing at the edge of a very tall building and waiting for the fall. He could feel the tremble of the hands that clutched at his damp shirt and he thought that maybe it was better that he wasn't the only one who was nervous – though nervous wasn't quite the word. His stomach was a mess of knotted tension, his body so taut that he couldn't even move to touch John,  _touch John,_  because John was touching him – or his shirt – and was kissing him, and surely that was permission enough to touch John. Sherlock was relatively sure that he wanted to touch him. He was sure that it was what he was  _supposed_  to do, but he had no experience of these things. The idea of actually reaching out to the man who was now breathing his name against his lips was almost too much to bear considering.

John was pulling away, his breathing staggered; he did not pull away completely, his hands were still on Sherlock's shirt and he was still close enough that Sherlock could feel the heat of his breath mingling with his. He didn't know what to say, if he should say anything at all, he wasn't completely aware of what these moments were meant to be filled with but in the very least he thought that if was quiet enough, if he didn't say anything, perhaps John wouldn't move away quite yet. Because he liked it. He liked that John wasn't being particularly gentle or careful. He had liked that John's lips weren't hesitant. He had liked that John hadn't asked tentatively if he could kiss him. John had done it all of his own accord.

And now John's hands were letting go of his shirt and, instead, pressing their palms flat against his chest. Sherlock opened his eyes and found himself staring into heated pools of hazel-blue mist.

Perhaps  _this_  was what John was referring to in terms of aching intensity.

His voice was so low it was almost not a sound at all. "John."

"You're a manipulative bastard, you know that?" The words from John's throat fell onto his lips, more like a branding iron than mere vibrations of vocabulary. "You knew that with that bloody song, with all your graceful arms and the piano and that bloody talent you kept hidden from me, you  _knew_  what it would do to me. You knew that I..." John broke off, shaking his head gently. "You couldn't just let me live in ignorance, could you? You had to go and make me do it."

Sherlock could feel his body tensing against the words inspired by what he was sure was John's anger. "John, I -"

"You're a bloody idiot," John murmured, his fingertips pressing hard against Sherlock's chest, "and so am I. Because all it bloody took was a bloody song from your bloody violin and suddenly I'm absolutely certain that if you'd just done that last week we wouldn't even have had to go through all of this."

Sherlock started to take a step back, so shocked he was at the implication. "What do you mean?"

"No..." John's fists curled around his shirt again, holding him in place. "Don't do that. Don't move away."

"I -"

"It took me long enough to get here. So don't move."

Sherlock hesitated, his mind starting to unfurl as confusion reigned. "I'm very... unsure as what to say. Or do. John, quite frankly I'm very much out of my comfort zone so you'll have to humour me and explain what you're thinking."

"I don't want to think. I've done enough thinking." John was shaking his head, no longer looking into Sherlock's eyes and instead looking at his own hands gripping onto Sherlock so hard that his knuckles had turned white. "I can think some more later, much later, because if I start thinking now then we'll end up stepping back from this whole thing and right now, right now, Sherlock, I'm pretty far finished with stepping back. I don't want to do that."

Sherlock found himself staring intently at John, his own hands starting to tremble at his side. "What do you want to do?"

John's eyes flickered up to meet his. "Well, I'm  _going_  to kiss you again."

"Ah."

"So... yeah, there's that." And then John was leaning up –  _leaning up_  – to kiss him once more, his lips pressing to Sherlock's gentler than the first time, almost as if he were capturing them between his own and, rather than taking a kiss,  _giving_  one. Sherlock was still utterly unsure as how to respond, his hands rising slightly as if to touch the man and hesitating mid-air as John's lips left his briefly before returning, slightly impatient, as if awaiting a reaction. Because, of course John would want Sherlock to kiss him back. Of course that was what anyone would expect. Of course John wouldn't think Sherlock so inexperienced that he'd never had the chance to learn how.

Sherlock broke away, frustrated with himself.

"I'm sorry John, I have no idea what I'm doing -"

"Like this, like this," John urged quietly, a hand leaving the shirt and rising to press light fingertips against Sherlock's lips; instinctively Sherlock formed his lips into a gentle moue, John leaning up instantly to brush his lips against both the gentle pressure of his own fingers and the shape beneath it, removing his fingertips and instead letting them take rest upon the top of Sherlock's arm as he encouraged Sherlock's progress with the unexpected softness of his oddly tender insistence. The hand left on his chest was now moving, trailing down to momentarily rest on his stomach – intimate, very intimate, perhaps  _too_  intimate – before it slipped across to hold his waist, much better, the lips on his moving slowly, his lower lip suddenly between John's and then back to mould around the shape of his. Sherlock was still utterly unsure as to what he was doing, but it was difficult to think about it with the closeness and warmth of John so very much in the present.

He was well aware that it hadn't even sunk in yet.

Slowly, hesitant beyond all measure, Sherlock brought his shaking hands to hover over the area of John's hips, a finger darting out to brush the material of John's trousers before letting it curl and hide in the palm of his hand; he focused instead on the warmth of John's breath as his lips parted, the tiniest hitch in John's throat as he pressed himself just a tiny bit closer to the Sherlock's stiff, unyielding body, the way that the fingers curled around his waist pressed into him with the smallest amount of pressure as Sherlock allowed his own lips to move slightly against John's increasingly lingering kisses. He found himself slowly letting his thoughts ebb away as he allowed his body to lean in just a little further, the constant thrumming of the heart that had already been racing quickening as he daringly let his finger dart out and touch John's hip again, the occasional rush of emotion and the single thought of  _John is kissing me_  like colours fighting against the grey he'd been battling since he had arrived home; soon he was so immeasurably focused on the feelings of being touched, kissed, cared for by John that his finger stopped being so daring and was joined by the lightest of palms, both hands resting delicately upon the warmth and solidity of John's surprisingly sturdy form -

John let out the tiniest of noises, a minuscule rumble in the the back of his throat at the touch of Sherlock's hands on his hips; his feet were suddenly moving backwards, the hand that had been on Sherlock's arm moving up to wrap around the back of his neck as he deepened his kiss – he was moving and taking Sherlock with him, stumbling backwards and not letting the kiss break for even a moment as they practically fell across the threshold of John's bedroom and, finally, a swooping, adrenaline burst of a moment as John let the back of his legs hit the bed and sent them both tumbling onto the firm support of the mattress and mass of blankets beneath them. Sherlock felt himself become momentarily winded as he fell on top of John, his hands still on John's hips, leaving his chest to hit John's with surprising velocity – their lips separated for a moment, a rough, vocalised exhale from the curly-haired genius and a soft,  _'ah'_  from John as their bodies crashed together in the most unromantic and clumsy way possible; when Sherlock had managed to bring his head up to look at John again he saw that the man was staring up at him as if he couldn't quite believe his eyes... it could have been an intense moment, perhaps it should have been, but without a moment's pause the two of them were suddenly laughing and the hand that was still behind Sherlock's neck was shifting so that John's thumb could brush against the side of John's face in the fondest gesture Sherlock could have imagined and then they  _weren't_  laughing anymore, they were kissing again and Sherlock was beginning to understand the significance of hormones as he decided that his thoughts were no longer necessary, that it was the first time he would instead let his sentimental instincts do the running of this show.

He could feel the sheer solidity of the man beneath him now, far more than when they had simply been standing and there had been that frustrating breadth of space between them; now he could feel the heavy beat of John's heart against his own chest, the curve where John's chest flowed down into his stomach, the poke of ribs on a body that was still too slender for what it should have been, the legs beneath him that twisted and fitted until they were a mass of curled and tangled limbs. Sherlock found himself shifting his body so that one leg slipped itself between John's – the smaller man's legs were still curled around the edge of the bed – and the other rose to go on the other side, his knees dipping the mattress so that he now had greater control over how he was positioned; he lifted his chest up slightly so that he was not quite so dependant on John's body to hold his, letting his legs transfer the weight of himself so that he could remove his hands from John's hips and instead let them come up to rest on John's torso. This time it was he that leaned forward to press his lips to John's, a strange tingling warmth racing up his spine as John slipped his fingers into the hair at the nape of Sherlock's neck, tangling into his curls and ensuring that he maintained some level of control over the kiss – that was fine. Sherlock could only go so far with this kiss and John knew it, so if John wanted some control over it then that was probably the best thing for both of them. John would know what to do.

The hand that was not twisted into his hair was placed at the front of his shirt, John's fingers finding the hollow of his throat and lingering there, his palm flattened against the skin below – it was such an odd sensation to have John's fingers so intently and intentionally touching his bare skin that Sherlock was unsure whether the feeling in his lower stomach was a pleasant feeling or one of apprehension; he kissed John even harder to try to distract himself from it, surprised at himself as his fingers began to dig hard into John's chest and even more alarmed when the sandy-haired man beneath him let out a small groan and opened his lips more than before and –  _oh_  – he felt the brush of a tongue across his lower lip, unfamiliar and overwhelming -

Suddenly John pulled away, almost violent in the speed and vehemence of it; his breathing was laboured, his cheeks flushed an endearing pink that Sherlock both appreciated and wanted to comment on, eyes opening and flickering up to meet Sherlock's before flitting over to the side of them, to the open door of the bathroom, then back again... it was all too fast for Sherlock to read, his only real knowledge being that John had ended the kiss and was most likely allowing himself to start thinking again, which if John's earlier comment had been accurate meant that John was about to start doubting everything and it would probably be better if Sherlock left  _right now_  -

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John said breathlessly, glancing up at the genius before looking away again, "sorry, I didn't mean to -"

"It's fine," Sherlock managed to force out, pulling himself away from John and struggling to stand –  _get to your bedroom before it gets worse -_ "I understand completely."

"I just... I got carried away and if I'd... if it had carried on..." John seemed to be having trouble finding the words as he tried to sit up properly, and Sherlock certainly didn't know how to help him when he was having difficulties with his own thought processes in the haze of the moment. "I don't want to do anything that might... y'know..."

"Please," Sherlock said stiffly, shaking his head, "you don't need to explain."

John was suddenly looking at Sherlock intently, slightly confused. "I... no, I actually think I might have to. Are you all right?"

"Fine."

"Mm. No, because, when you say you're fine..." John was slowly pushing himself off of the bed, looking at Sherlock with almost the ghost of a smile on his lips, "you tend to be lying. So. Yeah. If you're not fine, just tell me."

Sherlock did not like the sensation that he was being analysed; he turned slightly in the dark room, looking away. "I said, John, I'm fine. I understand that you may be coming to the realisation that this wasn't what you wanted to do -"

" _What_?" The trace of smile from John's face had gone, replaced with a bemused frown. "Where the heck did you get  _that_  from?"

"Oh, come on, it's written all over your face." Sherlock knew that he was being irrational. Of course, that didn't mean he could necessarily stop. "You realised that it was going too far and it's brought you back to reality."

"You really are an idiot," John said in exasperation, half-laughing as he dragged his palm down his face, "really, Sherlock, sometimes you are  _so_  clever but you just stop short of seeing the whole picture." He was approaching Sherlock one small step at a time, almost as if trying to get closer to a wounded animal in distress. "You're right about one thing, it  _was_  going too far, but not because I realised I didn't  _want_  to be doing this, christ. Could you not tell?" His frown was turning into amusement again; it was somewhat irritating. Mostly because Sherlock was feeling completely ignorant. "Could you really not tell how much I was... how much I...  _liked_  it?"

"There's no need to try and appease me, John, I'm a grown man -"

"A grown man with no idea just how much  _this_  grown man was enjoying himself." The flush in John's cheeks was deepening, his hands curling into fists and then relaxing as he fought against the urge to do... whatever it was he wanted to do. Sherlock was hopelessly out of his depth here. "Sherlock, I didn't pull away because I didn't want to carry on."

Sherlock chanced another look at his friend. "You... really?"

"Yeah. Yeah, that's pretty much as far away from the truth as you could get."

He didn't understand. "I don't understand."

John did not seem to know whether to smile or not. His lips were constantly twitching as he attempted to suppress it. "You  _do_  know that I'm only human, right?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, John, I'm well aware."

"Good. You'll understand, then, that... doing that... what we just did -"

"Kissing," Sherlock clarified.

"Yes," John could no longer stop the small grin that had been threatening to appear, "good, I'm glad you were there for that -"

"If you're just going to mock me, John -"

"Sorry, sorry, it's just... you're a bit endearing right now and it's hard not to. I'm sorry. My point was... what was my point... right, yeah, that if we'd carried on doing what we were doing I probably wouldn't have stopped it going further if we'd gone past a certain... point."

Sherlock stared at him.

_Endearing?_

"Do you understand what I mean?" John's head was tilted to the side, his eyes narrowed in concern. "I mean, can you see what I'm trying to get at? Because if you really think this is about me saying I didn't want to kiss you then I... well. I don't really know what to say other than my acting must be far better than I thought it was."

Endearing. John thought he was endearing.

"Sherlock?"

He certainly wasn't trying to be endearing. Was it his ignorance? Usually ignorance was an unattractive trait, but perhaps if it was in relation to physical affection it changed somehow, making him go from irritatingly naïve to adorably innocent – ugh, no, that wasn't preferable, not at all -

Fingers were suddenly briefly touching his wrist, warm and hesitant - he jerked roughly out of his head and found John standing directly in front of him, a look of concern worrying the edges of his lips; he felt his heart jump erratically to find John this close. "Ah."

"You okay?"

The words fell out of his mouth before he could stop them. "You think I'm endearing and I don't know if I like that or not."

John stared at him for a moment. The tiniest of smiles slipped onto his lips.

After that, he wasn't really too sure of what happened. He could vaguely recall the smile turning to a gentle chuckle, then perhaps John reaching out and pressing his palm lightly against Sherlock's chest; he remembered the other hand moving, tangling into Sherlock's mess of curls again, John's eyes creasing at the edges with warmth and some sort of emotion that Sherlock hadn't seen before from the man standing in front of him – it was a nice look, he knew that much, but the identification was impossible when John chose to increase the proximity of their bodies and leaned up to press his lips awkwardly, hesitantly just below his cheekbone. There was a moment where Sherlock's eyes closed, unintentionally breathing in the scent spiralling around him, and another moment when he felt the lips upon his skin move and was gently replaced by the hot skin of John's forehead – the scent increased and he knew that from this moment forward he would not be able to erase it from his memory, that it would linger until he could breathe nothing else in without feeling disappointed that the familiar scent was not there.

And then there was the moment when John had moved his lips and the words had come out, sweet and warm against his jaw, so quiet he had to replay it over and over again to be sure.

_I bloody love you, you daft bugger_.

Not quite Shakespeare.

_I bloody love you, you daft bugger._

But that was unimportant.


	42. Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: HOLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!! New chapter for you, you beautiful people - hope it doesn't disappoint, and be assured that a lovely chapter will follow in the next few days. <3 Thank you so much to everyone who has followed tostudyonemoffabeth on Tumblr and an even BIGGER thank you to all those who have indulged in the chat sessions so far! THEY'RE SO DAMNED FUN!**
> 
> **Love and hugs; comments are held above ALL things. Apart from love in general. MY LOVE FOR YOU IS EVERLASTING.**

**Chapter Forty-Two**

A gentle knock on the door; John's eyes opened slowly, squinting against the harsh sunlight that was streaming in through the windows and confusion reigning supreme as he tried to remember where he was and who could possibly be knocking on his door at... he glanced at the alarm clock next to his bed, shock jolting in his stomach as he saw that it was already 10:30. He groaned, running a hand over his face, only realising he had yet to respond as another light knock vibrated into the room.

"Mm? Yeah, come in..."

The door creaked open and Wanda's face peeked around the edge. "Sorry if I woke you, John, but I'm making a full English for the boys and wondered if you'd like something?"

John blinked, looking again at the alarm clock and then back to the messy-haired woman who was now inching her way across the threshold with an apologetic smile and wearing the softest looking dressing gown he had ever seen in his life. He cleared his throat, dragging his palm over his face again as he struggled to sit up.

"If you'd like to sleep for a little longer, that's absolutely fine -"

"No, no," he protested sleepily, pushing himself up so that he was sitting upright, "no, breakfast. Breakfast is good."

Her smile instantly became triumphant. "Good. You want something of everything? I could just do you some toast if you're feeling... delicate?"

Apparently she hadn't failed to notice the amount of champagne he'd consumed the night before. He gave her a sheepish grin. "No, full English sounds amazing. I actually feel all right, considering... well. You know."

"Don't feel ashamed, John, Tim was rather tipsy last night when we got home, you weren't the only one." She bustled over to the door again. "Just come down when you're ready; there's a clean dressing gown on the back of the bathroom door, so don't worry about getting dressed. None of us are!"

And with that she was out of the room, humming gaily to herself as she creaked merrily down the stairs – he heard now, with his door open, the rumble of voices from below, not so loud that he could hear specific words but enough that he could differentiate between the different timbres. He found himself with a little ball of warmth slowly spreading through his stomach at what he was about to be a part of, still embarrassingly caught up in the feelings of being considered a part of this odd, wonderful little family – he found it was not too much effort at all to slide out from underneath the covers, stumbling slightly into the bathroom and plucking from the back of the door a navy dressing gown that smelled of clean cotton and lavender. He slipped it on and tied it quickly at the waist, glad that he'd at least put on a t-shirt with his boxer shorts last night so that he wouldn't have to face the Holmes family whilst feeling bare and exposed.

John stepped out into the hallway and padded his way slowly down the stairs; to his surprise the whole Holmes family was in the kitchen, dressing gowns aplenty and each one of them seemingly busy with helping to cook breakfast. Tim, mumbling to himself, was poking at some bacon frying in the biggest frying pan John had ever seen; Wanda, humming along to the radio, was cracking eggs onto yet another frying pan; Mycroft was lingering by the toaster, flicking through something on his phone – work, no doubt; and then there was Sherlock, messy hair completely untamed, buttering the toast that was already sitting on the countertop and glancing up as John stepped from the stairs and looking as if he were the epitome of a rabbit caught in headlights.

John felt quite the same.

"Ah, there you are!" Wanda said brightly as he took a few steps into the room, still cracking what were  _surely_  too many eggs into the pan and throwing him a smile. "Do you want to get settled at the table, dear? Breakfast shouldn't be too long."

John tore his gaze from Sherlock who, after a few moments of staring as if he'd quite forgotten what he was doing, had started to butter the bread perhaps a little more erratically than before. He forced a quick smile back at the content-looking woman. "It smells amazing. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Don't be silly, you're a gue-"

"I think he's been here quite long enough now to no longer be counted as a guest, Mummy," Mycroft drawled from by the toaster, not even bothering to look up from his phone. "If he wants to help then let him, by all means."

Wanda looked around at her family and bit her lower lip. "Well, I'm not sure there's anything  _to_  do..."

Mycroft finally glanced up, a smirk on his lips. "Perhaps John can help Sherlock butter the toast. Four hands are better than two, after all."

Sherlock's hand paused momentarily over the bread. "I'm quite capable of doing it on my own, Mycroft -"

"Good idea," Wanda proclaimed, dipping her hand into the cutlery drawer and holding out a knife in John's general direction as she turned her eyes back to the bacon. "Here you are, John. I'm sure Sherlock would appreciate the help."

John took the knife from her outstretched hand, hesitating for a moment before walking over to stand beside Sherlock at the counter; neither of them looked at one another as Sherlock moved the butter to sit closer to John and pushed the plate of unbuttered toast between them. Reaching out to take a slice and dipping the knife into the soft tub of spread, John waited a few moments before realising that if he refused to speak first there would be no talking whatsoever. And Wanda would notice. Wanda would  _always_  notice. "Hi."

A pause, the sound of the knife against toast. "Hello."

"Did you sleep well?"

John could practically feel as Sherlock's eyes darted down to glance at him. "Not particularly well. You?"

Oh god, it was awkward. It was  _so_  bloody awkward. "Like a baby, actually. First good night's sleep since I got here."

"And incidentally the worst I've had." Sherlock paused again, seemingly reconsidering his words. "That makes it sound like it was a bad thing... I suppose it would be more accurate to say that it was the best night of no sleep I've had in a while."

Surprised, John stopped buttering the toast and looked up at him. Sherlock's eyes were fixed wholly on his own moving hands. "Really?"

"Mm."

John forced himself to look back at what he was supposed to be doing, his stomach coiling at the undisclosed tension as his head tried to decide whether it was the good sort of the bad sort. "So... good. I'm glad. I mean, not glad that you didn't sleep well but glad that it wasn't a bad thing."

Mycroft suddenly appeared, dropping four slices of hot toast onto the near-empty plate of unbuttered slices; he lingered for a few moments, looking between the two of them before rolling his eyes and heading back over to the toaster, leaving them in their uncomfortable silence to keep buttering toast and saying nothing.

Eventually John realised there wasn't going to be an easy way to do this: he'd just have to bite the bullet and see what would happen. "Sherlock... we're okay, right?"

"I'm fine."

"No, I mean..." God, for a genius Sherlock was almost impossibly, irritatingly ignorant. It seemed to be a trait they both upheld admirably. "You and me. The both of us. Our... thing. We're good?"

The tiniest of smiles flickered momentarily on Sherlock's face before he effortlessly shrugged, throwing a slice of bread onto John's empty buttering plate. "That depends. Second thoughts?"

Instantly John was wrapped up in the memory of the night before – the realisation, the kiss, the second kiss, the moment Sherlock had lightly grasped his hips, the bed, the taste, the heat... the confession. A flush worked its way up to his cheeks, his hand become a soft mush of uselessness as he remembered everything in almost severe clarity; he put the knife down, placing both hands on the edge of the counter and taking in a few breaths. When he finally glanced up at his best friend, feeling the warmth from his cheeks spreading rapidly to his ears, he saw that Sherlock was watching his reaction with intent fascination.

The look almost killed him. "If you want me to answer that in some form of comprehensible English you probably shouldn't look at me like that, for starters."

Sherlock's brow creased. "What way? How am I looking at you?"

"God, you really are completely unaware of the way you look at people, aren't you?"

"No, I'm entirely aware," Sherlock replied quietly, momentarily putting down his own knife and turning his head to look at John properly, eyes swimming with fire and ice in equal doses; it made John's head spin. "But then, you're not people. You're very much...  _not_  people."

If John had been unable to form a sentence before that moment he was certainly rendered useless now; he simply stared up at the messy-haired genius with his lips slightly parted, the urge to ignore the other people in the room and just kiss the living daylights out of him so powerful that he could feel his hands start to shake. It was madness. It was utter insanity. Barely twelve hours had passed since he'd come to terms with his feelings and already he was in over his head.

A slow, small smile spread out across Sherlock's bowed lips.

"All right boys, time to get the food into the dining room!" Wanda floated to them with a smile that was far too smug, holding a tureen full of sausages – were they having the entire village over for breakfast?! - and a pile of plates, winding her way through the space between them and the counter and heading towards the dining room. "Tim, make sure you're not over-cooking that bacon!"

Tim looked up from the pan, his lips formed in a tiny 'o' shape. "How cooked is over-cooked?"

Mycroft leaned over, glancing into the pan. "Well. Let's hope everyone likes their bacon crispy."

Realising with a start that he had not yet looked away from Sherlock's flawlessly nonchalant face, John hurriedly leaned over to pick two plates of buttered toast, stepping around the younger man in order to take them through to Wanda; she quickly took them off of him and waved him back towards the kitchen to get the rest, John turning on the spot and striding back to the counter. Tim hurried past him with a dish of very, very questionably blackened bacon and a sheepish smile, Mycroft following closely behind with a tureen of eggs, a large glass bowl of cooked mushrooms and an exasperated expression – no change there, then. John shuffled over to the counter where Sherlock was currently lining up the remaining three tea-plates along his arm to carry through to his mother, instantly leaning over and grabbing two of them with a quick grin – careful not to look the boy directly in the eye so as not to lose control and simply throw the plates to the ground in order to get his hands on something far more tempting than breakfast – and whipping back into the dining room.

"Lovely! Thank you, John, and Sherlock," Wanda said, setting out tall glasses and making her way around the table to fill each glass with what looked to be fresh orange juice, "just get yourselves sitting down..."

John and Sherlock slid into their usual places at the table, neither one of them looking at the other as Wanda poured cold juice into their glasses and then settled herself down next to Mycroft. As soon as she'd sat down Tim held up a finger.

"I want to quickly issue an apology for -"

"The bacon, Tim!" Wanda interrupted in dismay, staring at the dish with eyes as round as saucers, looking utterly horrified. "What did you do to the bacon?"

"Well, it's possible that the heat was set just a little too high -"

"It's black! The bacon is black! We can't expect John to eat it, it's inedible!"

"Oh, well," Mycroft sighed, raising his hands to the heavens, "we mustn't let  _John_  eat the burned bacon. No concern for us, of course, we'll eat it and be grateful..."

Wanda shot him a look. "Don't start, young man."

"Young man?" Sherlock smirked and dragged the bowl of mushrooms towards him, "I'm not sure that's an entirely accurate description..."

Mycroft glared at him from across the table as he ladled two eggs onto his toast. "No need to be catty,  _Peter Pan_... tell me, what's it like to have never experienced growing up?"

"Says the man who didn't move out of his parents' house until he was twenty-six -"

"BOYS!" Wanda tapped her hand firmly against the table, frowning at them both over her glass of orange juice. "We'll be having none of that today, not after such a glorious evening and in the view of such a  _lovely_  day. We need to decide what we're going to be getting up to!"

John set to loading three sausages onto his plate, suddenly famished. "Oh, are we going out today?"

"We need to make the most of this weather," Tim mused, turning around to glance at the sky through the conservatory windows, "it's supposed to rain for the rest of the week."

Mycroft followed his father's gaze out to the conservatory. "As much as it pains me to miss a family outing, I really must do some work today. Heaven knows how they usually manage to function without me, but regardless, needs must."

Wanda's head tilted to the side, disappointed. "Are you sure? I was thinking we could take a trip to Portsmouth today, enjoy the sunshine by the coast."

"As wonderful as that sounds it can't be avoided," Mycroft almost apologised, cutting into his eggs-on-toast and shrugging lightly. "But I'm sure you'll all manage to enjoy a day without me."

"We'll scrape through," Sherlock muttered, lifting a slice of toast to his lips and taking a small bite. "Mustn't let the government fall apart without you."

"Well then," Wanda cut in before Mycroft could say something undoubtedly harsh in return, a look of pure determination on her face, "that's settled. John, have you ever been to Portsmouth?"

He shook his head, digging his knife into the apparently inedible bacon and pausing as he brought it to his lips. "No, never. It'll be nice to go somewhere different. Is there a lot to do there?"

"We'll probably take a picnic," Tim suggested, "as we tend to do a lot of walking. There's always Southsea Castle -"

"Not that you two have to stay with us," Wanda interrupted, her eyes flitting between John and Sherlock with a familiar flame of determination within her pale eyes, "you can go about and do as you like, we won't mind."

John's eyes flickered to Sherlock, whose face was still admirably nonchalant. Maybe he was the only one who was feeling slightly awkward. "Well, I don't mind either way."

"You could take John to Spinnaker Tower!" Wanda was now talking directly to Sherlock. "It'd be a beautiful view, especially later in the day..."

"Wanda," Tim said quietly, dipping a piece of toast into the centre of his egg, "leave them be."

"I was only suggesting -"

"Did you enjoy Sherlock's performance last night, then, John?" Mycroft seemed to have no qualms with interrupting his mother, raising his eyebrow as he looked across the table and met John's eyes with a look that was far too knowledgeable for his comfort. "I'm sure you were absolutely...  _enthralled_."

John knew before it happened that the blood was rising to his cheeks again. "Yes, well, of course... it was brilliant. He was brilliant."

"And the piece of music? A change, I think, from what you were originally planning to play, brother dear, correct?"

The look that Sherlock shot Mycroft was one of pure irritation. "What if it was?"

"Oh, I just wondered if there was a reason behind the decision, an inspiration perhaps." Mycroft was clearly enjoying himself. "Nothing more than that."

John could not help but sneak a glance at the boy sitting beside him; he found himself mildly surprised as he saw the beginnings of a flush dotting Sherlock's arched cheekbones. "It was a last minute decision made for no reason other than my own changeable tastes."

"Regardless," Wanda said sharply, "it was a beautiful piece of music and everybody enjoyed it. That's about all that matters."

John suddenly felt oddly protective of his friend, turning his head and looking at him openly. "It was, Sherlock. It was really beautiful."

Sherlock met John's gaze for a moment, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as the cogs within his head whirred and his sensational observation skills began to kick into gear; John could almost see the myriad of thoughts that settled and sparked in his eyes as he re-played the sincerity in John's voice, reading the expression of his face and taking from it what John hoped was the knowledge that, yes, he had found the music beautiful and, without a shadow of a doubt, had loved every last minute of his performance.

Finally the man gave him a small, slow nod, the tiniest of smiles flickering against his lips.

"Thank you, John. I'm... glad you liked it."

John forced himself to look away, unable to maintain eye-contact and keep a steady head. The situation between them needed some resolving, that much he was sure of. "You're welcome."

**\- X -**

He waited, with an almost inhuman patience, until they were alone.

As the rest of the family busied themselves in the kitchen, pots and pans clattering against plates and filling the dining room with the comforting knowledge that everyone was distracted enough that he could finally answer Sherlock's question of before without interruption, John watched out of the corner of his eye as Sherlock slid from his own chair and began to reach out to take John's empty plate within a steady hand; he did not know how to go about this, how to breach the subject with the genius so artfully avoiding his tentative stare... and it was frustrating. It was frustrating to watch him move around John as if it was of little consequence, picking up the plate and turning away as if he was completely untouched by the tension and the sheer solidity of the space settled awkwardly between them like a wall; he could not find the words, apparently he could  _never_  find the words, and not for the first time with Sherlock he found himself remembering Wanda's notion that sometimes it was better to say nothing at all.

He had been so good at it so far, after all.

Standing so quickly he felt his head begin to spin, John reached out and wrapped his fingers around the material of Sherlock's dressing gown and pulled until the dark-haired teenager was forced to stop and turn, his own fingers grasping the plate a little tighter as he met John's wordless stare and took a step forward so that John was no longer pulling at the soft fabric and instead simply grasping it between oddly numb fingertips; instinctively John let go of the dressing gown and flattened his palm against the waist beneath it, his lips forming into the words he was unable to say as he pushed the arm wielding the plate out of the way and stepped firmly into the space between them, leaving no room for hesitation as he pushed himself up onto the balls of his feet and pressed the unspoken sentiment to rest against Sherlock's own virtually unresponsive lips in a quick, hard gesture, not entirely unlike the first kiss he had ever experienced at the hands of the tall genius. As he went to pull away, embarrassed, Sherlock's hand dropped to the height of the table and let the plate land with a thud onto the tablecloth, a flash of movement as his now free hand moved to rest lightly upon John's hip as it had the night before, head following the descending journey of John's.

He did not kiss John. His lips lingered centimetres away, eyes focused completely on John's mouth as if he was trying to work out what had just happened and why.

The two of them stood, frozen, the light flooding in from the conservatory and illuminating them in a burst of warmth.

John eventually managed to push out some words, though whether they made any sense he was completely unaware. "The question... I wanted to answer the question."

Sherlock's eyes flitted up to his, hazy, unreadable. "What question?"

What question? John wasn't even sure. His mind would not work. "The one you asked. With the toast... the question."

"You'll have to be... more specific." Sherlock's voice was a murmur, barely audible; the low, velvety tones were so ridiculously deep that John could feel the vibrations of them against his skin despite their lips still separated by an infinitesimal distance.

He swallowed hard, feeling his heart hammering beneath his chest and knowing that it was impossible to try to concentrate when this man, this man who before had been his friend and was now so infuriatingly impossible to define in all his newly overwhelming magnetism, was just inches from him and so close that he could taste the tart edges of orange juice at every word breathed against his lips. He could not understand it at all, this feeling of want, of need, something that had seemingly sprung up overnight and was now so condensed and tangible that it was incomparable to everything else he had ever experienced and made all the more addictive knowing that  _nobody knew_ , nobody was truly aware of what had happened between them -

"John."

Just like the night before, that was all it took to shake and break his resolve; one breath of his name from Sherlock and every molecule of confusion meant nothing, less than nothing. He positively leapt to close the distance, slamming his lips against Sherlock's and wrapping his arms so tightly around Sherlock's waist that he could feel the forced exhale of oxygen and carbon dioxide leave the man's body – not that it mattered, he would breathe for him if he had to – not even caring that at any point someone could walk in and catch them; he was drunk on it, all of it, and the only thing he could focus on was the slight tightening of fingers against his hip, the hand that tentatively rose to brush against his shoulder, the scent of something harsher than femininity and altogether more tantalising than anything he'd experienced before washing like a fog around him and rendering him temporarily stunned. He was not gay, he knew that even as his lips moved to momentarily capture Sherlock's lower lip between them, he was not interested in men for any purpose other than friendship but this,  _this,_ this was not simply an act between two men... it was an act of determination and desperation and desire between two people who had reached a point where it was essentially pointless to consider other options outside of each other; he did not need to think of anyone else, nor did he want to. He was wholly, absolutely, nonsensically fixated on Sherlock now, and it was beyond comprehension to even imagine that there could be anything  _more_  than this out there.

But before he lost his head completely, there were things to resolve.

Forcing himself to drag his lips away from Sherlock's and take a moment to control himself, John pulled into his lungs three staggered breaths which he ardently needed and took the smallest of steps back, gratified as he felt Sherlock's fingertips press harder into his hip to keep him from moving too far from his own breathless body.

The two of them stood in silence for a few moments.

John finally remembered what he had been trying to say. "No second thoughts. None. Nothing."

"Are you sure?" Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, shaking his head. "It's all happening so fast, John, you might want to take a moment -"

"I've taken enough of them," John disagreed, knowing even as he said it that it would not be quite as simple as simply letting things happen but unable to find it within himself to care, "and we need, we  _need_  to talk about it properly at some point but until then... until then..." He refused to stop himself as he leaned up again and pressed one more kiss against Sherlock's lips, breaking away and reaching up with a slightly trembling hand to grasp at the front of Sherlock's dressing gown. "Until then we'll just..." He couldn't find the words, again.

Sherlock opened his eyes. "Be."

The word seemed to fit seamlessly into the space between them. John nodded, pushing aside his doubts and worries and embracing the two simple letters as if they were all they would ever need. "Yes. Let's just... be."

"No specifics."

"None," John confirmed, "not until we've talked it out. And we will talk it out."

"Soon."

"Yes. Soon. Okay, but, until then I'm going to just kiss you one more time, just once more, and then we can -"

John's words were silenced by Sherlock instantly.

**\- X -**

Wanda turned away from the dining room and tiptoed back into the kitchen, cheeks pink, eyes wide.

"Oh  _my_."


	43. Captain Jonathan Ironfist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: Well, a lot of you have been keeping up with my randomosity on Tumblr, but for those who haven't... well, it took a while to find the inspiration but once I found it... HERE IS THE SPAWN OF IT! Chapter Forty-Three, ready and waiting for your viewing pleasure!**
> 
> **Comments are smothered in honey and eaten in one swallow! I'll actually reply to them this time, I promise. ;]**
> 
> **Lovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelove! <3**

**Chapter Forty-Three**

The car journey, in the end, was actually somewhat enjoyable. Wanda had perhaps overestimated how far a game of 'I Spy' would go, Sherlock guessing everything within seconds and complaining two minutes later that he was bored – unsurprising, of course, considering the man seemed to have the attention-span of a five year old. Tim, realising far quicker than his wife that Sherlock wasn't going to be entertained by children's games, put on the radio and turned it up whilst rolling down the windows, welcoming in a wonderfully warm breeze alongside popular hits of years gone by; Wanda and Tim were soon harmonising to 'I Got You, Babe' by Sonny and Cher whilst Sherlock shot John a tortured rolling of his eyes and sent the smaller man into such a fit of giggles that he had to smother his mouth with the heel of his hand for at least five minutes.

They weren't the only ones to end up singing along to the radio, however; eventually John felt comfortable enough that he started singing quietly along to various tunes – most enthusiastically (and embarrassingly) to 'It's My Life' by Bon Jovi – and, for the most unreal three minutes of his life, John actually experienced hearing  _Sherlock_  sing. It wasn't particularly loud, more of a hum with an occasional smattering of words thrown in, but as soon as 'Here Comes The Sun' by The Beatles came on Sherlock seemed to forget that he was sitting less than a metre away from John and began crooning away to it in a voice that not only amused John but also, in its own way, endeared him to his friend. He wasn't a particularly  _good_  singer, but he could hold a tune enough that it wasn't unpleasant to listen to and had enough of his silken tones nestled beneath it that John was oddly captivated for the entire of the song. He watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eye with a tiny smile playing on his lips, not wanting to bring the fact that he was listening to the younger man's attention but very much intent on not missing a moment.

His favourite moment was when Sherlock actually did the 'doo-dn-doo-doo' bit and moved his head in time with each syllable.

An hour and a half after leaving the cottage they found themselves stuck in a traffic jam that seemed to go on for miles – it wasn't so terrible at first, Tim and Wanda singing even louder as if to drown out their own irritation, but eventually it reached a point where Sherlock was growing more and more noticeably frustrated, not saying a word but fidgeting occasionally and staring out of the window with increasingly narrowed eyes. He began pulling at his jeans (Wanda had refused to let him leave the house with his smart trousers on) as if plucking bits of fluff from them, fiddling with the edge of his white polo-neck t-shirt and eventually sighing so long and so loud that even Tim noticed.

"You all right back there, boys? Sorry about the traffic, think there's been an accident…"

"I'm fine," John said, though in truth the extra half an hour in the car was starting to wear at the contentment he'd been feeling before, "I've faced worse before."

Wanda glanced into the rear-view mirror, brow wrinkling in concern. "Sherlock? Are you all right, dear?"

"Mm."

"Are you feeling sick?"

Sherlock's eyes gave a half-hearted roll. "I'm not ten anymore, Mother."

"Roll down the window if you're feeling a bit peaky."

"I'm  _fine_."

John looked at his friend; he  _did_  look a little pale. He waited until Wanda began speaking in low tones to her husband before he murmured to Sherlock in a gentle aside. "You sure you're all right?"

Sherlock continued to stare out of the window. "Yes."

"Only you look a bit…"

Icy eyes turned on him. "I look a bit  _what_?"

He decided to go for the less snarky options bubbling within his head considering he was currently stuck in the backseat of a car, in traffic, on a rather hot day with an increasingly irritable teenager. "Pale. Frustrated. Edgy."

Sherlock's lip curled slightly – apparently John's attempt to be inoffensive had been unsuccessful. "Your observational skills are, as ever, a credit to your intelligence. If you hadn't noticed, John, those are three traits that I tend to exhibit on a daily basis with or without the help of this infernal traffic and therefore your commenting upon them is completely unnecessary."

It was like going back in time: the construct of his sentences, the stiff tone, the not-so-vague insult - John could barely recognise the man from last night to the one sitting inches from him now, yet in an odd way he found that it was… reassuring, maybe? Though he hadn't thought on it much, whether intentionally avoiding it or not, the truth was that his biggest concern was that things would change between them; he wasn't ignorant, he'd been there before – the dynamic of a relationship changed when... other things... were involved. Of course it was true to say that they hadn't yet specified what the nature of their relationship would involve; for all John knew it would be a whirlwind of a confusing summer full of secret kisses and suspicious mothers but it would all end once Sherlock moved back to Well Place and John... well. John still needed to find somewhere to live.

John grinned slightly. "Glad to see you're back to your normal self. I've missed that bastard."

"John!" Wanda turned around with a look of mock-rage. "Language!"

Tim chortled to himself, leaning out of his window momentarily. "Looks like you weren't wrong about Greg being a bad influence on him, dear."

"Sorry," John said, slightly abashed but knowing to take it in good humour, "but I promise it was meant in an entirely affectionate way."

He did not miss the look that Sherlock shot him. "If that's how you show your affection I'm not sure how much longer I want it directed at me."

Wanda chuckled quietly ahead of John. John glanced at the back of her head before allowing himself to look at Sherlock again, still grinning. "Call me a name, then we'll be even."

"I'm not quite sure how that would help."

John shifted his body so that he was properly facing his friend. "It's like when you're angry with someone, you want to hit them. And sometimes they  _tell_  you to hit them. So I'm telling you to call me a name. Balance it out."

"Don't you dare," Wanda warned, raising a finger and glaring at Sherlock through the rearview mirror. "Really, John, I would never have thought that  _you_  would be the bad influence..."

"Then you are sadly ignorant to his many talents," Sherlock muttered, though it was with the tiniest of smirks that he turned away from the inhabitants of the car and took to staring back out of the window, "one of which includes being a terrible influence on those he dares to call his friends."

"Well, aside from that being a huge bloody lie... all right." John brushed his palms over his jeans, shrugging. "We're even."

Sherlock frowned, sitting up slightly. "No we aren't. How are we even? I didn't call you a name!"

"You insulted me. That counts."

"I didn't insult you, in fact if you recall what I  _actually_  said you'll realise that I said that you have many talents! I practically  _complimented_  you."

"You just told your parents that I'm a bad influence!"

" _Many talents -_ "

Tim interrupted their argument with a gentle suggestion to his wife, a woman who seemed to be very much enjoying their banter as a smug smile played on her lips. "What if we took a detour, dear? There's a little country road just up there, we could take it and see where we end up?"

Wanda pursed her lips, looking out of the window towards the country lane. "We don't want to get lost."

"We won't get lost," Sherlock remarked confidently, leaning over towards John in order to peer out of the window on his friend's side of the car, "I'll keep track of where we are. Anything to get out of this traffic."

John nodded, though he was slightly distracted by the tiny amount of warmth currently emitting from the boy whose hand was now next to his leg as he shifted to get a better view at the country road. "Yeah, I'm... I'm up for an adventure."

Wanda turned to look at the two of them. "Are you sure? We could end up in the middle of nowhere, you might actually end up preferring the traffic..."

"Mother, it's already half past one. Chances are on a day like today that parking spaces in Portsmouth are already full and we'd just end up circling the same area many times before deciding it's not worth it and turning back to head home again. A wasted day." Sherlock settled himself back into his seat again. "We might as well take the risk and see where we end up."

John half-smiled. "Never took you for an adventurer."

Sherlock shot him a small glance. "You're forgetting, John, that I used to be the most feared pirate on the high seas. I  _live_  for adventure."

The casual reference to his roleplaying days made John's stomach fill with warmth and forced him to fight the desire to reach out and touch Sherlock to show just how much that small allusion to his childhood meant. "Well, far be it from me to stop you from pillaging and plundering. I could help, if you want."

Sherlock smirked. "Do you like plundering, John?"

John grinned back. "That depends. Do you have a vacancy?"

They were flirting.  _They were flirting._

"All right then, Tim, the boys seem to be up for it!" Wanda flashed a self-satisfied smile at the two of them before tapping her hand to the dashboard. "Onwards, then, to adventure!"

**\- X -**

Where they ended up, after another half an hour of driving, couldn't have been more different from their planned, heavily-populated day in Portsmouth.

It was a small town, if you could even call it a town. They drove past a few large, sprawling houses before reaching a handful of brightly coloured little bungalows, pretty little houses with perfectly tended front gardens and a small number of elderly people washing cars and potting plants. There was a smattering of little shops a small way up the road from there, a post office and a convenience store next to a barber shop and a very small stone building that was possibly the loveliest ivy-covered pub John had ever seen in his life, wooden benches outside with several hanging baskets throwing out splashes of colour; set against a blue, almost cloudless sky and the scent of the fresh saltiness of an ocean breeze, it seemed that they had – quite by mistake – found a beautiful gem just ten miles or so from the bustling town they had intended to visit.

And then they saw the beach.

Small, golden and secluded; perhaps eight or nine people were wandering up the shoreline, dogs on leads and small children dashing at the water's edge whilst adults looked on in apparent amusement – John could hear as Tim pulled the car over to park the voices of parents calling to their children to take their shoes off, dogs barking and circling their owners, the sun beaming down in a glorious wave of heat that was entirely pleasant and not at all overwhelming. As John stepped out of the car and breathed in deeply, a warm breeze brushing past his body and filling him with easy contentment, he found that he was actually relieved that the day had not gone as planned. Here they were, in the middle of nowhere as Wanda had rightly predicted, and he couldn't have possibly felt more grounded and centred than he did at that moment; he glanced behind him over the car roof at Sherlock, whose eyes were watching not the families but instead the slow ebb and flow of the water, and felt a little bubble of happiness and – he couldn't help it – anticipation at what their day could possibly hold in store for them.

They started out by going on a long walk around the surrounding area, walking past the pretty bungalows and receiving several 'good afternoon's from the residents in their front gardens – Wanda stopped for a few moments with one particular lady, gushing over her azaleas and asking for tips on pruning whilst Tim chatted briefly with his usual good-natured interest about the very lovely car that the woman's husband was waxing; John and Sherlock stood awkwardly to one side, apparently not finding anything of any worth to say, at least not when they were so very much in earshot of the Holmes parental unit. Once Wanda and Tim were done being their usual friendly selves, they found their way to the little pub and got in a few drinks and snacks, John sharing some beautifully cooked, salty chips with Sherlock whilst Wanda and Tim munched on crisps and waxed lyrical about the lovely area and people.

By the time Tim had finished his third cider and was looking a little flushed in the cheeks, it was 4:45pm. The sky was a little less clear with some clouds rolling in over the horizon as they rounded the corner to take a walk on the now deserted beach, the breeze much cooler almost to the point of being chilly and most certainly brisk enough to make John wish that he'd brought a jumper along with him. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed completely nonplussed by the weather, his hands shoved into his jeans pockets and his usual long strides as graceful as ever as he walked a few paces ahead of John; from the back he could have been any young man at all, his thick curly hair and casual hands-in-pockets gait making him look every bit his age without being able to see his face, hear his voice. The fact that the man was wearing jeans and a polo-shirt made him look every bit as ordinary as any other nineteen year old and yet, as John watched him walk behind his parents, it didn't diminish anything about him. If anything, this odd, inconsequential view of Sherlock as a teenager-bordering-on-adult made John feel strangely charmed. Sherlock was not ordinary, but with the right clothes and the right lighting, he could fool anyone. And yet he had not chosen to fool John.

Wanda and Tim suddenly turned, both faces flushed bright from the walk and the breeze; Tim smiled at them, happy. "Well boys, we're going to head on up in that direction -" he pointed towards the furthest end of the beach, " - but if you'd rather hang back and do your own thing that'd be fine by us."

"I'm sure you'd like a bit of time to yourself to explore," Wanda enthused, eyes flitting like a hawk between them. "Martha, the lady I spoke to earlier, said that if you carry on down the beach in the other direction and go over that hill there, you'll find lots of rocks to climb over and disport yourself with."

Sherlock shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. "We're not children, Mother. We don't need to  _disport_  ourselves with anything."

"It was just a suggestion!" she defended herself, raising her hands and widening her eyes in mock fear. "But do as you will, it's completely up to you. We just thought you wouldn't want to hang around with us fuddy-duddies all day."

John glanced at Sherlock. "Well, I was having a nice time -"

"Nonsense," the determined woman interrupted, reaching down and seizing Tim's hand in her own. "Go off and have fun. I'll call you when we're getting ready to leave, hm?"

And, with surprising speed, she had turned and was dragging her husband down the beach with all the aplomb of someone who had been planning for this moment all day without taking a single look back. The two young men watched as Tim leaned down to say something to her, his hand coming up to brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear, her answering smile tender as she reached up to pull the hand down for a kiss – John and Sherlock looked at each other before quickly glancing away, hesitating for a few moments before John finally spoke.

"So. Walk in the other direction?"

Sherlock shrugged, though he did seem to willingly turn and begin to head towards the small hill. "They're bad enough at home, but put them out in public and they're all over each other."

John slipped his own hands into his pockets, a small smile on his face. "That  _might_  be a but of an over-exaggeration, Sherlock. It's not like they're sticking their tongues down each others throa-"

"Please, don't." Sherlock interrupted with a sigh. "That is genuinely one of the last things that I want to think of."

John nodded, not seeing a need to torture him; instead he let his gaze drift out to the seemingly endless sea to their right. "It's beautiful out here, isn't it?"

"Mm." Sherlock didn't turn to look, instead looking straight out ahead of him. "Quaint. Better than Portsmouth."

"Really?"

"Yes. Places like that, they're teeming with families and belligerent children. I can't say I was thrilled by the suggestion in the first place but, seeing as Mother seemed to have her heart set on it, I wasn't going to argue."

John's eyebrow shot up of its own accord, his feet kicking at the sand lightly as he walked. "I never thought I'd hear those words out of your mouth – 'I wasn't going to argue'. Speaking as someone who has experience of how much you  _do_  like to argue..."

"Its pointless arguing with her," Sherlock said lightly, glancing down at the ground before looking back up. "She's unbearably stubborn."

A smile twitched at the edges of John's lips. "Remember that pot and kettle we keep talking about?"

Sighing, Sherlock rolled his eyes up to the sky. "Yes, all right, I'm a pot and I'm calling the kettle black. I assume that means that you think I'm stubborn too."

"Think?" John's smile widened. "No, Sherlock, I don't  _think_  you're stubborn. I know you are. You're the most stubborn person I know, without a doubt."

"John?"

"Yeah?"

Sherlock gave him a sideways glance. "Remember that pot and kettle we keep talking about?"

John looked at him for a moment before a bark of laughter left his lips, his feet kicking sand in Sherlock's general direction. "Fuck off."

"That's the second time you've sworn at me today."

"Play your cards right and I'll swear a whole lot more."

Sherlock's own lips curved slightly as he looked away and back to what was directly ahead of them once more. "I'm sure I won't have to try too hard."

After that they continued to walk in silence, certainly the most companionable silence they'd shared to date; John continued to kick sand and Sherlock continued to walk with his eyes fixed firmly ahead, the sky slowly darkening as they made their way over the small hill and over to the other side where, as the old lady Martha had promised, were a rather lovely cascade of large rocks both on the sand and in the water – they reminded John of the ones he used to climb on as a child when he and Harry would go and visit their cousins up in Yorkshire, particularly one memorable occasion when Harry had fallen and cut her head open during a game of 'tag'... needless to say they hadn't played  _that_  again whilst climbing rocks. In fact, if he remembered correctly, his mother had forbidden them to climb on them again after that and promptly blamed John for not looking after his sister properly.

If she'd seen the number of times Harry had tried to shove him off of them she wouldn't have been so quick to yell at  _him_.

As they approached the rocks, John flashed another quick look at Sherlock who, rather than looking at the veritable boulders in front of them, was instead looking out at the sea. "Whaddya say? Fancy a climb?"

Sherlock slowly turned to his friend, a look of disgust curling at the edges of his features. "Please, John, my mother was only joking. They're probably filthy after all of the rain in the last few days, not to mention slippery."

John wandered towards the closest and smallest one, leaning down to run his fingers over the smooth surface. "Nah, it's fine! What, are you scared of a little dirt?"

"No," Sherlock said, his tone infinitely bored, "rather more hesitant about slipping and cracking open my skull."

"Oh, come on." John climbed up easily onto the first rock before stretching his leg out to step onto the next, an easy distance to close. He stood above his friend, holding his arms out and grinning. "They're hardly damp. Get up here."

Sherlock was looking at John as if he didn't quite understand a single word he was saying. "I'm not going to wreck my clothes and get myself filthy just to make you feel like less of an idiot for enjoying yourself by climbing over great big dirty rocks."

"Yes you are," John called as he turned away and made a small leap onto the next rock. "Get your arse up here and stop being such a prissy snob. After all... what would Captain William the Brave do?"

There was a moment of silence before a sigh, a groan and, finally, the words that John had known would be coming. "Well, he wouldn't be messing around on rocks, I can tell you that much, but I suppose if I'm to make sure you don't break something..."

John stopped on the fourth rock, turning to watch as Sherlock stepped his way carefully onto the first and then second mound of stone. "It's not me you should be worried about, actually - I should be looking out for  _you_."

"What makes you -" Sherlock wobbled slightly but regained his balance with a huff as he leapt onto the third rock, face twisting momentarily in surprise. "Ugh. What makes you think you need to look out for me?"

A wide grin broke out over John's face as he shifted to leap to a bigger rock next to him, keeping his arms out to steady himself. "I'm fairly certain that out of the two of us I'm the more experienced rock-leaper here. I mean, feel free to argue if I'm wrong, not that I need to encourage you to argue."

Sherlock grimaced as he leaned back and stretched a long leg out to get a firm stance onto the next rock. "We didn't exactly spend much time climbing on rocks when we were children, Mycroft and I. We spent most of our time playing instruments or reading books. Or... well. I played on my own sometimes."

"Oh, I know." John took a dangerous leap onto a rock perhaps a little far out of his reach, only just making it as a rush of air escaped his lips and a childish rush of adrenaline raced through his body at such an easy pleasure. "You don't need to tell me that, Sherl- well, actually, no. I should probably be calling you, Captain, right?"

Sherlock was suddenly on the rock behind him, arms flapping slightly as he fought to keep steady on the slightly uneven surface. John tried not to laugh. "I'd rather it if you  _didn't_  mock me, John -"

"I'm not John!" The smaller man turned, seeing a large rock ahead of him that he very much wanted to climb; he perched on the edge of his current rock and let himself lean forward until he was falling, his hands reaching out and palms clapping hard on the surface of the larger rock ahead of him – he propelled himself forward, muscles in his arms straining as he pushed himself up to rest his knee on the hard stone until he hoisted himself up to stand properly, brushing his now dirtied palms on the legs of his jeans. He straightened up, grinning at the genius who was now staring at him in what looked just a little like awe from the rock he had just been standing on. "I'm the fearsome Jonathan Ironfist, the newest member of your crew."

Sherlock paused at the edge of his rock, eyes scanning the other rocks around him before turning back to look at John. "Fearsome? You're not fearsome."

John frowned. "Of course I am. Very fearsome. I frighten everyone who dares to step foot in my path."

Sherlock seemed to consider jumping onto the rock next to him but stopped himself at the last moment, bringing his arms to rest stiffly at his side. "Well, why am I not frightened of you, then?"

"Because you're the Captain of the biggest, best ship in the seas. I was shipwrecked after my crew mutinied against me and now I'm wholly at your mercy, Captain."

The two eyed each other for a few moments before Sherlock seemed to suppress a smile, his eyes flickering away. "At my mercy, are you?"

"Oh, yes," John said firmly, nodding as he watched Sherlock shuffle in his place on the rock. "You're trying to decide whether to just kill me or keep me on as a crew member."

Sherlock took three steps back, eyeing both John and the rock in front of him; he took two quick bounds forward before literally jumping off the rock and towards John and the larger boulder, expression a mask of determination – John quickly reached out to grab the man by the arms as Sherlock landed right on the edge, pulling him properly onto the rock and steadying him with a laugh and a pat to his shoulder as Sherlock too let out a small breathless snort and reached out with his own hands to grasp John's lower arms.

The two of them looked up at one another, smiles slowly fading as the breeze swept around them and they both became quite aware of their renewed proximity.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly. "And why shouldn't I just kill you?"

It took John a few moments to recall their conversation of before. "What? Kill me? What do you mean, kill me?"

The sharp jaw tilted up, eyes flashing as Sherlock looked down at him, arrogance positively  _dripping_  from his every pore. "I want you to tell me why I shouldn't just throw you to the sharks, boy. I want you to give me a reason to keep you here as my crewmate."

John caught up quickly, letting go of Sherlock's arms and straightening his spine in his attempt to match up to Sherlock's height; he pulled his brows down into a frown, his eyes sharpening into a glare as he let himself fall into a character as easily as he had done as a child. "I don't  _have_  to do anything,  _William_. I'm pretty sure my reputation speaks for itself."

Sherlock slowly released John's arms from his grip. "That's Captain William to you, common smuggler."

"Common smuggler?" John whirled away from Sherlock and pulled himself up onto the tallest rock there, turning slowly and curling his hands into fists as he looked down on the taller man with a sneer. "I'm the former Captain Jonathan Ironfist of the infamous Midnight Marigold, and you call  _me_  a common smuggler? Look to your own wares, Captain William, and then you'll see who the smuggler here is."

Sherlock's lips suddenly slipped into a small smile, a glint of amusement sparkling in his eyes. "Did you do amateur dramatics back at school by any chance?"

John grinned back. "Not that I'd admit to, so you can keep on guessing."

"Well then,  _Captain Ironfist_ , am I to assume that you would rather die than join me as the lowliest crew member of the Silver Arrow?"

John watched as Sherlock climbed onto the rock next to John's, waiting until the man was facing him again to give his answer; it was literally like being a child again, the same fierce joy ripping through him simply from playing a game of make-believe. He gladly ignored the very obvious fact that he was twenty-three years old. "I'll accept nothing less than first mate, Captain. Anything less than that and you can kill me where I stand. I'd rather a bullet to the head than the shame of joining your crew as anything less than your right-hand man."

"My right hand man?" The words were practically a murmur, Sherlock's icy eyes glancing out to sea before returning to meet John's – Jonathan's – steady gaze. "Well. It's a truth that I've been needing a replacement for Redbeard the Hairy..."

A grin cracked John's pirate-y facade. "And from what I hear you've been looking for a long time."

When Sherlock's eyes met his once more there was an odd glimmer of surprise, closely followed by confusion... finally, with a small nod to himself, his expression settled on mere acceptance as he fixed his gaze upon John with all the intensity he could no doubt muster. He gave a small shake of his head. "No, Mr. Ironfist... I believe I was never really looking at all. It would seem you simply... found me at the right time."

Warmth flooded his veins like the rapidly diminishing sun; John found his fingers uncurling from his palm and instead unintentionally twitching in the direction of the man now looking at him as if he couldn't quite believe his luck, the breeze gently soothing the sudden rush of blood to his cheeks.

Perhaps it was time to join reality once more.

John motioned with his head for Sherlock to join him on the expansive rock.

"C'mon. Let's talk."

**\- X -**

Sherlock and John sat side by side and stared out at the streaks of colour across the sky in front of them, fifteen minutes passing before either one of them found it within themselves to say a word; eventually, through impatience or courage John was unsure, Sherlock allowed the silence to be broken. "So. You want to do this now."

"Well. We might as well get it out of the way."

"All right." Sherlock looked down at his lap. "You know that I have... no experience in these sorts of things. Literally, none."

John nodded. "I know. And that's fine. It doesn't bother me."

"Are you sure?"

Allowing himself to look to his left for just a moment, his eyes catching the genuine concern on Sherlock's face before the boy had a chance to wipe it clean, John felt a fierce wave of something infinitely warm well up in his chest. "Yeah. Yes. I mean, let's get rid of the elephant in the room here – I've never been with a... man. I've never kissed a man. I've never had  _feelings_  for a man. So if it makes you feel any better about this, at all, this is all pretty much as terrifying for me as much as it might be for you."

"I'm not  _scared..._ "

"Really?" John raised an eyebrow and turned to look at Sherlock properly, genuinely surprised. "Because it'd be all right if you are. I bloody am."

Sherlock let a moment of hesitation stretch out between them. "I... what are you scared of, exactly?"

John shrugged. "What's anyone scared of at first? The unknown, I suppose. And the knowledge that this isn't just... getting with a girl and seeing where it goes. I know I shouldn't make comparisons, but really, Sherlock, it isn't the same. If we...  _try_  this..."

"If we try a romantic relationship?"

John couldn't  _not_  grin at Sherlock using the word 'romantic' to describe it. "If that's how you want to put it, then, yeah. If we try a romantic relationship, it's not going to be the same as trying a relationship with someone of the opposite sex. I know that times are moving on and people are opening up their minds a little but I, for one, won't have a supportive family. You know that. I may not have said as much but it's fairly obvious from the way I act when faced with anything other than heterosexuality that I haven't been brought up to think it's a good thing."

Sherlock glanced at him. "You did kiss me, though."

John met Sherlock's look with an open, honest gaze. "Yeah, I did. I... did kiss you. But I don't think that means that I'm  _gay_. You're the only... well, you've been the only man that I've ever..."  _Ugh, why is this so hard?_  "The fact is that I kissed  _you_ , Sherlock. Not some other man. Not any man. I didn't kiss you because you're a guy, I kissed you because you're... you."

Sherlock looked away, his lips pursing slightly. He didn't say anything.

"But whether I'm gay or not, the fact that we're talking about the possibility of being something other than friends -"

" _More_  than friends."

"No," John argued gently, shaking his head, "no, I don't agree with that and you'd only need to ask Greg to know how passionate I am about that sort of phrasing. To say that changing the nature of our relationship makes it something more than it already is would be to...  _insult_  what we already have. It would be to say that our friendship isn't important enough, to either of us. So, in my eyes, it wouldn't be something more simply because we're adding another layer to it. It's just... developing in a direction we hadn't initially planned for."

Sherlock seemed to think this over. "Our friendship  _is_  important. We wouldn't be here without it."

"I probably quite  _literally_  wouldn't be here without it." John knew that he was throwing sentiment at Sherlock at ridiculous speed, but at that moment he couldn't really care less. "If it hadn't been for meeting you I probably wouldn't even exist right now. So, yeah. Our friendship is important. The most important thing."

Sherlock's oddly warm gaze met his. "So you mean to say... friends first and foremost?"

"Well." John nodded slowly. "Yeah, I guess that is what I'm saying. No matter what happens, we're friends. Friends above everything."

The eyes on his became questioning. "But... you still want to try?"

"Right, that's what I was talking about." It was so easy to become distracted with Sherlock; it was one of the reasons John liked him so bloody much. "If we do try, it's going to be difficult. Obviously Greg and Mycroft are on our side, and suffice it to say that your  _mum_  is more than a little on Team Johnlock -"

"Johnlock? Really?" Sherlock's nose wrinkled slightly. "I don't know if I like that."

"I was only joking -"

"No, but, if we're going to have a moniker why should your name come first? Why not... Sherlohn? Or Holmson?"

John stared at him. "Well, all right, I  _was_  joking but if you're going to come up with terrible ideas like that I'm going to have to insist that we use Johnlock."

Sherlock's lips pursed slightly. "I don't like it."

"You don't have to like it. It's not as if anyone's going to use it."

The curly-haired man nodded stiffly. "Fine. Johnlock."

John turned away to hide his grin. "So. We have Greg, Mycroft and your mum who'd support us. My parents definitely wouldn't, but Harry would, without a doubt. What about your dad?"

Sherlock shrugged. "He wasn't exactly stunned when Mother started to insinuate that there was something going on. And no doubt she's told him what I told her the other day."

John's brow wrinkled. "The other day?"

"When she forced me to help her with the table linens. She was asking me about us."

"Oh." John remembered all too clearly. "Yeah, I figured it was something like that. Did you tell her about... what happened back at university?"

Sherlock shook his head. "She didn't want details, she just wanted to know how I felt. So I told her."

John felt a growing admiration not only for the infinitely determined Wanda but, incidentally, for the boy sitting next to him. "That was pretty brave of you."

The taller man shrugged. "I knew it wouldn't bother her."

John let this sink in for a few moments before taking in a deep breath and forcing himself back to the matter at hand. "So you think your dad would be fine with it too. Good. So that just leaves... everyone else. All of my friends, at uni and back at home. I don't know how they'd take it. I don't  _want_  to know."

A small breath of air left Sherlock. "Then... do you think that perhaps we shouldn't try?"

Shock pulsed through John, his entire body jerking to face Sherlock properly. "No, that's not what I'm saying – that's not what I'm saying at all!"

"If your parents would take it so badly -"

"Fuck my parents," John swore, incensed and overtly impassioned, "I don't care what they think. It's really not about that, Sherlock, I swear to you. I just... if we're going to try, we need to be careful. Because I meant what I said before, all right? Our friendship, I'm not going to risk losing it. It's more important to me than any  _maybe_."

They allowed themselves perhaps a few moments of silence as they both mulled their options over, John turning his head though not his body to face the sea again and squinting his eyes at the sun that was starting to set; it was beautiful, there was no denying it, the perfect setting for such an in-depth conversation. He found himself feeling only slightly uncomfortable, the very tiniest bit, and all of that he knew was rooted in his narrow-minded upbringing by parents who genuinely thought they were teaching him right. If he ignored those, if he ignored the memory of his sobbing sister and shouting mother, he had no qualms whatsoever about what they were considering. It was just... complicated. It would always be a little more complicated, if only because they were complicated people at that moment in time.

Finally Sherlock spoke. "All right. I have an idea."

"Go on."

"What if we were to... present ourselves as normal?"

John frowned. "As normal?"

"As friends. To everyone. We continue our friendship without introducing the idea of anything more to anyone. We keep our friendship first and foremost for everyone to see."

"And..."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Well. We'd... let things... develop. Away from people."

As the idea settled and spread across John's awareness, a slow smile crept across his lips as realisation dawned. "You're suggesting a covert affair?"

Ice-blue eyes rolled to the heavens. "I wasn't going to be  _quite_  that dramatic -"

"That's what you're suggesting, though. That we carry on as normal and sneak around if we want to... y'know."

Sherlock looked away from him with a sniff. "I don't know what you're referring to."

John nudged him with his shoulder. "Stop being coy."

"I'm not being coy, I have absolutely  _no_  idea what you could be alluding t-"

John reached out and curled his fingers lightly around his friend's jaw, turning his head with barely any pressure before leaning up and pressing his slightly dry, warm lips against Sherlock's. He stayed there for a moment, closing his eyes briefly as he let the feel of the breeze, the burning colour against his eyelids and the ocean air settle over him and create a moment that he could hold onto before slowly pulling away and moving his head back so that he could look at Sherlock's face – his eyes were closed and his cheeks slightly flushed, dark lashes sweeping against the faint colour of his cheekbones and bringing about in John a fierce sense of love that was so difficult to swallow that he had to keep his fingers pressed against Sherlock's jaw for a few moments more before he was willing to remove his touch.

When Sherlock opened his eyes, they were burning; the murmur slipped through his lips like a caress, his cheeks pinkening further still.

"Oh.  _That_."

John offered him a smile, nudging him again with his shoulder but lingering there for just a few moments before leaning away again. "Yeah. Lots of that."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment before looking away and out to the sky once more, the two of them staring at the half-sun that was slowly disappearing before their very eyes. "Yes. All right. Friendship first and foremost for everyone else. And for us... lots of that."


	44. Pyjamas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: Okay, so, it's been a while! But your constant love, support and awesomeness has absolutely kept me going and today I finally managed to reach a point where I feel I can post this chapter. It's a bit of a nonsense chapter, kind of pointless admittedly, but it was still incredibly fun to write and I hope that in the very least it's an enjoyable read. <3**
> 
> **Love, hugs and Moffabeth adoration!**

**Chapter Forty-Four**

_**John Watson:** _ _Are you still awake?_

_I am now. Thank you for that._

_**John Watson:** _ _Sorry, didn't mean to wake you up._

_Well, you did wake me up. If that wasn't your purpose, would you mind telling me what was?_

_**John Watson:** _ _Just wanted to know if you were awake._

_And I am. Now I'm going back to sleep._

_**John Watson:** _ _Wait, that's not fair! You're not allowed to sleep if I'm not sleeping._

_I fail to see the logic in that. Goodnight._

_**John Watson:** _ _I'll just keep texting you..._

_And I'll just put my phone on silent._

_**John Watson:** _ _Ha. No you won't. What if you miss something important?_

_What could possibly be important at 2:33 in the morning?_

_**John Watson:** _ _Me. I'm having a medical emergency._

_Call 999._

_**John Watson:** _ _Not going to stop texting you._

_If I had known how clingy you'd be I would've thought twice about things._

_**John Watson:** _ _Things? What things could you possibly be referring to?_

_Even you aren't that unintelligent, so I assume you're trying to (unsuccessfully) rouse me into waxing lyrical about recent events. I won't be indulging you._

_**John Watson:** _ _When have I EVER tried to make you 'wax lyrical' about anything?! Also, I'm not clingy, I'm just bored. And restless._

_What do you want me to do about it?_

_**John Watson:** _ _I don't know, entertain me! Tell me a joke._

_No._

_**John Watson:** _ _Tell me something interesting about science._

_No._

_**John Watson:** _ _Tell me something about you that I don't know?_

_There are a millions of jokes, scientific facts and scraps of information about myself that I could relay to you, John, yet you'll notice that I'm not offering you anything. Perhaps it's because there are so many that I simply can't choose, or perhaps it's because I'm tired and I would rather like to get some sleep. So. Goodnight._

_**John Watson:** _ _If you're not going to entertain me via text I'm going to sneak into your room..._

_No you aren't._

_**John Watson:** _ _I'm climbing out of bed now..._

_Liar._

_**John Watson:** _ _Can't you hear the creaking of the floorboards? I'm headed towards my door..._

_There are no creaking floorboards._

_**John Watson:** _ _Listen carefully: can you hear the sound of my door opening?_

_**John Watson:** _ _Did you hear it?_

_Go back to bed._

_**John Watson:** _ _Nope. I'm standing in my doorway..._

_It's not your doorway, it's the doorway to the spare bedroom. Now get back in bed and stop making empty threats._

_**John Watson:** _ _I'm really bored, Sherlock._

_Sleep and you won't be bored anymore._

_**John Watson:** _ _So bored, so so so bored and restless and now I'm going to sneak across the hallway to your bedroom... can you hear me coming?_

_Yes - go back to bed! Go back to your room!_

_**John Watson:** _ _I thought it wasn't my room, I thought it was the spare room?_

_What does it matter? Get back in there and sleep! Now!_

_**John Watson:** _ _Why are you panicking?_

_I'm not panicking, why do you think I'm panicking?_

_**John Watson:** _ _You're using exclamation points. I know you, Sherlock, and you NEVER use them._

_Don't be ridiculous. Go back to bed._

_**John Watson:** _ _And now you're purposefully not using them to negate what I just said. I'm outside of your door now..._

_This is utterly absurd, John, everyone else is sleeping and you're hardly the quietest person in the world!_

_**John Watson:** _ _My hand is on the doorknob..._

_I'm not dressed! You can't come in!_

_**John Watson:** _ _…_

_**John Watson:** _ _Almost had me there but you were wearing pyjamas underneath your dressing gown yesterday morning before we went out to the beach. You wear pyjamas._

_Maybe I just put them on to come downstairs._

_**John Watson:** _ _You were wearing them today too, at breakfast. Black ones. You know, before you buggered off and left me on my own for the whole day._

_Doesn't change the fact that I might not wear them whilst I sleep._

_**John Watson:** _ _Also doesn't change the fact that you still haven't told me where you were all day. I'm coming in to interrogate you._

_DON'T COME IN._

_**John Watson:** _ _So now I'm just standing out here like a total arse with my hand on the doorknob wondering why you're so adamant that I can't come into your room. I haven't even SEEN your room yet._

_And now is not the time for it. It's dark. You can't see anything._

_**John Watson:** _ _Doesn't matter. I just want a general feel for it._

_Why are you so intent on coming into my room at 2:30 in the morning?!_

_**John Watson:** _ _Oh, wow, you're really showing your cards here. You ARE panicking, a question mark AND an exclamation point. Why are you so scared about me being in your room?_

_It's late and I'm tired. There is no panicking._

_**John Watson:** _ _Now I'm starting to wonder if you really ARE naked._

_I am. So go to bed._

_**John Watson:** _ _Oh, you SO aren't naked. And you need to tell me why you abandoned me today. So I'm coming in._

_I was doing personal things in town, nothing to do with you, so please, John, please just go back to bed and we'll converse in the morning._

_**John Watson:** _ _I guess a good friend wouldn't want to make you feel uncomfortable in your own home._

_Thank you. Goodnight._

_**John Watson:** _ _Good thing I'm not just a good friend, then._

Sherlock watched with narrowed eyes as the doorknob began to turn; his fingers rapidly began to text, knowing even as he did that it would be too late and that by the time John had even received the message that the door would be open and he'd be over the threshold -

_Stop it now!_

The door creaked open a fraction, the briefest moment of hesitation before it opened further and Sherlock could just make out the shape of a figure in the darkness – there were no details, no real identifier other than the lit-up screen of a phone and an outline that Sherlock would have probably recognised anywhere. Instinctively his free fingers wrapped around the edge of the duvet cover, pulling it up and over his chin as he watched John read his text before the young man let the arm holding his phone fall to his side as he took one more step into the room.

John's voice was barely a murmur as he directed his words, not to Sherlock, but to the walls around him. "Yeah. I like it."

Sherlock's mind went completely blank. "You like what?"

"Your room. It's… nice."

His body was as tense as a drum; he simply could not fathom the idea that it was almost quarter to three and John was standing in his darkened bedroom commenting on the  _niceness_  of his room. "You can't even see it."

A smallest of movements – a shrug, perhaps. "I still like it."

"Good. Wonderful." Sherlock shifted slightly underneath the covers, practically trying to bury himself beneath them. "Now go away."

The figure of John seemed to hesitate for a moment, teetering on the edge of either moving forward or back – Sherlock couldn't tell – before he took the tiniest, most unthreatening step towards the bed that he possibly could and spoke a little softer, so quiet that Sherlock had to strain in order to hear him. "But I'm not tired."

"Have you suddenly regressed twenty years? Complaining to an adult that you can't sleep and demanding to be entertained?"

"I hate to remind you of this, Sherlock, but you're four years younger than I am."

Sherlock snorted, fingers tightening slightly on the bunched material beneath his grasp. "Emotional maturity counts for a lot."

"Oh, right." John seemed completely oblivious to Sherlock's discomfort as he wandered into the room further, Sherlock noting as his eyes adjusted to the darkness that he was heading towards the direction of his desk. "Because you're much more emotionally mature than I am. Do you need me to remind you of Greenwich Park, or…?"

An odd pang stabbed at Sherlock's chest. "Don't."

John paused in his investigation, face turning slightly towards the tense boy on the bed. He waited a few moments, awkward silence lingering between them for longer than was necessary. "Sorry. I didn't mean it to come out quite as… well. I didn't mean it the way it sounded."

"It's fine."

"Sure?"

"Yes."

John nodded, taking a quiet step away from the desk. "All right." There was another stilted silence, the darkness around them seeming to amplify and intensify the hush until Sherlock was tempted to say something simply to break the tension. Luckily John seemed to be on the same wavelength. "So. Yeah. You probably want to get some sleep."

Sherlock's brow wrinkled in confusion, his hand tightening on the duvet as he pushed himself to sit upright. "Wait, what?"

"You said you were tired, I should let you sleep."

"No," Sherlock argued, shaking his head back and forth as he leaned forward, "no, you  _purposefully_  came in here because you didn't want to let me sleep. You said, and I believe this is accurate, 'if I can't sleep, you can't sleep either', and now… what, now you've changed your mind?"

John's shoulders rose and fell once more. Sherlock's irritation rose.

"Well, I'm awake now, John. Very awake. And it's your fault. I asked you to let me sleep, you refused. I asked you not to come into my room and, yet again, you denied me that. So now you're here and we're both awake."

A slight shuffling of feet. "…yeah."

"And it'll be your fault if I'm in a foul mood tomorrow."

"Isn't it always?"

Sherlock could hear the smile lilting at the edges of John's voice; he fought the warmth that threatened to spread through his stomach and tried to hold on to the irritation, determined not to be bested. "Yes. You're extremely irritating."

He heard more than saw John advance towards him slightly. "So kick me out, then."

"What?"

"If I'm so irritating… kick me out."

Despite knowing that John was just trying to tease him, Sherlock found himself considering the idea. It was no secret that he was uncomfortable with the idea of John being in his room, though the reason behind this wasn't abundantly clear; John had, after all, been practically living in his home for a week now and having him there in such close proximity to him and his family hadn't been an issue – well, other than the first few days, but there had been reasons for that – yet the idea of him being within the confines of Sherlock's bedroom, the only place that he could call his own in this house, a place that had practically been his sanctuary to escape to when the world had seemed too small to hold him and his racing thoughts… for some reason it made Sherlock feel a vulnerability he had not quite anticipated. This was his 'safe space', for lack of a better cliché, and John being in here further emphasised the magnitude of a situation that he was still very much adjusting to. It didn't make any difference that Sherlock had been the first one to realise that the nature of their relationship had the potential to change: it was still unnerving and it was still devastatingly unfamiliar.

He was also in his pyjamas. As was John. As it turned out, John's pyjamas consisted of a plain white t-shirt and boxer shorts. Sherlock wasn't wearing underwear.

Sherlock's mind momentarily stalled.

"…Sherlock?"

"Mm?" Sherlock's eyes swept back to the direction of John's own waiting stare, still distracted. "What?"

He could hear the hesitation like an edge to John's quiet voice. "Do you want me to go?"

Did he? "I don't know."

John did not move, but he no longer advanced either. "Right. So… maybe I should go then?" Sherlock watched as John's arm moved, pointing towards the door. "I mean, you didn't want me here in the first place, I kind of barged my way in here -"

"After waking me up."

"After waking you up," John agreed. "And clearly, if the duvet pulled up to your chin is anything to go by, you're a lot more awkward about me being here than I actually expected. So…"

"So."

John took a step back. "So I'll go."

His body working against his acquiescing mind, Sherlock dropped the edge of the duvet. "Well, you…"

The smaller man waited, seemingly patient.

Sherlock looked around the dark room, a little lost. "You could stay. For a few minutes. If you wanted to. It's dark, so there's not much you can do, but if you're really that bored I suppose it wouldn't be so terrible if you were to stay – you can sit at the desk if you want to, or on the floor, it's a nice carpet, but then if you want somewhere more comfortable you can sit on the bed -"

"Are you asking me to get in bed with you?"

There was a cheekiness to the tone, a teasing that was not entirely unpleasant, yet the very notion of John climbing in beside Sherlock was so foreign to him that he continued to babble as if John had not spoken: " – I could tell you some facts about ash, I've actually been doing several studies in the differences between human and cigarette ash that I think you'd find quite interesting, though if that doesn't appeal to you I could always scrape through the recesses of my mind for a joke or two… or a factoid about myself, yes, that was the other thing, I have plenty I could tell you, not that any of it is remotely interesting and you'd probably find yourself bored within moments -"

He was rambling with such fierce ignorance and intent that by the time John had crossed the room he was completely unprepared; it shouldn't have surprised him quite so much to feel the dip of mattress as John sat on the edge of the bed, nor should it have been alarming to feel the waves of warmth from another body next to him, in his room, on his bed, yet it somehow managed to startle him enough that he broke off from his incessant talking and remained utterly silent as John's face actually became somewhat visible at closer range – a rolling of eyes, a tiny grin and a pair of eyes on his face which was now oh-so-taut with tension that he wondered if perhaps John's gaze would crack it completely.

"Sherlock," John said gently, closing his eyes briefly as he appeared to fight the urge to smile a little wider, "I'm not a rabid sex-craving beast, you know. I'm not going to rip your pyjamas off and… and take your virginity or anything."

Sherlock had been unaware that it were possible to feel more alarmed in his life. His whole body was frozen. "I… that wasn't… I didn't…"

"I already told you I don't want to rush this. Just because you're wearing pyjamas and you're lying in bed doesn't mean I'm going to take advantage of you or something. Do I need to remind you that I'm not exactly well-versed in… men?"

John needed to be quiet now. He had completely got the wrong idea. "John, I wasn't -"

"I'm just saying." John looked away from him and down at his own hands settled in his lap. "I didn't come in here to… start something. This is your space, I know that. I don't want to make you… uncomfortable in it. And if my leaving will help then I'll go. I don't mind. I can entertain myself until I fall asleep."

"John."

"Mm?"

Sherlock swallowed hard, trying very hard to slow the racing pace of his thoughts. "When I was five, my parents bought me my first violin." He watched as John's brown wrinkled in confusion, his lips hurriedly continuing before John could ask him what the hell he was talking about. "It was a rather beautiful instrument for what it was – simply a beginner's tool, a rather horrible sound to it but for all intents and purposes it did what it was supposed to do. They had an elderly man come to teach me the basics three times a week, and at first I hated it. I hated that they were making me do something I didn't want to do, though in all fairness to them it wasn't the violin I hated but rather being forced to spend time in someone else's company. I was quite happy spending all of my time alone, even as a child."

John didn't speak; Sherlock could feel the tingling heat of a focused gaze on his face, his own eyes avoiding the stare so that he could properly concentrate on the details of the memories he had suddenly decided to share.

"After about two months, however, I had started to show some skill, vast improvement. The man – Herbert was his name – was visibly pleased, encouraging me with pieces of music far more advanced than I was ready for but, in doing so, he allowed me to discover the charge, the adrenaline involved in challenging myself. I was lazy at the start of my lessons, never really practicing unless he was there to supervise me, but once I'd realised that it was something I could be good at, something that was actually enjoyable… like I said, a challenge… I started trying harder. I spent hours rehearsing songs for him, practicing until my fingers were sore – Mycroft would stand on the threshold of my bedroom and demand that I stop, so sick he was of hearing me play the same things over and over again. Naturally I ignored him," he added with a small smile, "because nothing gave me more pleasure than to irritate my older brother."

"Of course," John said with a responding grin, nodding. "I wouldn't expect any less."

"Eventually Herbert told my parents that the violin I was using was too amateur for my apparent talent, that if they wanted to take my musical gift seriously I would need something better, something that would last me years – and so they bought me my second violin. It had a richer tone, warmer, more pleasing to the ear; every piece of music I played sounded ten times better than before, and I can say without any shame that I was well aware of how good it sounded. I was fully conscious of my skill. Within two years Herbert proclaimed that there was no more that he could teach me, that I would need a new tutor to fully extend my skills and make the best of them – he didn't want to stunt them. So he found me a new tutor, someone far more rigorous and strict than he ever was but she – Miss Marie – pushed me even harder than he had, and that was something I needed, something I craved. She did exactly as he had done by giving me music to practice that was far out of my comfort zone but in doing so she once again hitched me into a desire to be better, to become better. She taught me for ten years and, as a parting gift, bought me my third violin."

John raised his eyebrows. "Wow. And that one, is that the one you have now?"

Sherlock nodded, his eyes flickering over to where his violin case sat beside his desk. "Yes. She and my parents took me to a specialist violin maker in the city where I could try out various models and then customise mine to however I wanted it – I chose the wood, strings, design. By this point Miss Marie was fairly old, she was reaching the end of her teaching days and I believe she had become oddly fond of me; she had certainly softened by the end. She paid a rather large sum for it and refused to be compensated. She died about a year ago."

A slight movement and the sudden added warmth of a hand on top of the covers, perilously close to Sherlock's leg; John's voice was very soft. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine."

There were a few moments of welcome silence before John spoke again, slightly hesitant in his tone as he seemed to shift the tiniest bit closer. "It's a lovely violin, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded in complete agreement. "I couldn't imagine ever replacing it. It has seen me through… many days."

"Dark days," John guessed.

"Indeed. She stopped tutoring me a few months before my overdose."

The bleak reality of the sentence swelled between them; it was something he had not yet told John about, not in any detail, and he knew that now was not the time to discuss it – still, it wasn't as if John wasn't aware that it had happened, even if he wasn't up to speed on the why's and how's. He let it stagnate for a while, almost able to hear the whirring and spinning of John's thoughts as the older man tried to separate emotion from acceptance and move on with the conversation despite clearly wanting to bring it up again.

"Sherlock -"

"Another time, John," Sherlock said quietly, still not looking towards him. "Not now."

"Okay." John's body seemed to lean away slightly, distancing himself from the words he so obviously wanted to say. "All right. Another time."

"Thank you."

There was a slightly altered indentation on the mattress as John seemed to twist his body slightly to face Sherlock properly, the timbre of his voice low and oddly shy. "Would you mind if I asked you to play for me again?"

Sherlock's fingers played idly with the edge of the duvet cover still somewhat covering his chin. "It's 3am, John."

"No, not now…" John laughed quietly, shifting once more and bringing his leg up to rest on the mattress between them. "Just… sometime. Next term, maybe. When we're back at Well Place."

He considered this. "I could play for you before then, if you… want me to."

"Not sure that's a good idea," John admitted, the peculiar shyness in his voice escalating slightly as if he were confessing something he had been thinking but not allowing to be voiced in the darkness of the room, "I mean, y'know. Remember last time. The effect it had. Not sure I want your mum to accidentally walk in on me after I throw your violin across the room and tackle you to the bed."

The heat tingled at the nape of Sherlock's neck like a dotted mass of embers, his fingers clutching hard at the material he still so tightly grasped – it was so dark and he was alone in his bedroom  _on the bed_  with John, and the words were lingering between them like tangible possibilities. The idea of being tackled to the bed was both pleasant and terrifying, the suggestion of his violin being thrown against the wall very much the latter. "I… well, I certainly don't want to… you - "

"I'm just teasing you," came the amused reassurance, the hand that had been very close to his leg shifting even closer still. "Well. Sort of. It  _did_  have a rather profound effect last time, but I was hardly going to just leap up on the stage and throw your violin across the crowd like a bouquet -"

"John," Sherlock groaned, flopping down onto his pillow and pulling the duvet with him, "that's hardly necessary…"

"Oh, it's absolutely necessary when you have reactions like that," John joked lightly, the sly hand now nudging against his leg properly, though whether it was an intentional nudge or an attempt to get closer Sherlock was unsure. "Does it really make you that uncomfortable to imagine?"

"Of  _course_  it does," Sherlock mumbled, his face half-covered. "You just threatened to throw my violin across the room!"

"I… what?" The duvet cover was suddenly ripped away, John's face looming above his with wrinkles of amusement and disbelief creasing at his eyes. "I didn't mean  _that_ , I was talking about – no, all right, maybe it  _would_  be better to focus on the violin violence…"

"The bed part is awkward too," Sherlock muttered, turning his face away from John and pressing it into his pillow. "I was just too much of a gentleman to mention it."

To Sherlock's complete and utter horror, a wicked smile flitted across John's face. "A gentleman, are you? Not sure that's entirely accurate, Sherlock."

"I don't know what you mean."

"No? Hmm, all right. I guess I'll have to remind you again." The wicked grin was not dissipating. Sherlock's palms were starting to feel a little clammy. "So, the other night, after the ball -"

" _You_  kissed  _me_ ," Sherlock reminded him quickly, his eyes darting over to look at John's face. "Don't forget that."

"Yes, true," John mused, nodding. "But I vaguely recall a moment where you were suddenly grabbing my hips -"

"I was not!" Sherlock arms flopped out either side of him, a fiendishly childish gesture. "I…  _touched_  them!"

"You held them," John compromised, his grin widening, "and there were certainly no complaints when I dragged you into the bedroom. Or when we fell onto the bed. Or when you essentially straddled me -"

"John, you -" Sherlock was pushing himself up slightly, frowning so intently that it was a little uncomfortable on his brow, " – I did not  _straddle_  you, I moved so that I would be more comfortable."

"And as I recall you kissed me pretty fucking hard," John reminded him, his tone suddenly deeper and slightly throaty, "and had your fingers digging right into my chest -"

"You weren't exactly withholding anything," Sherlock insisted defensively, his eyes now determinedly focused on John's slowly darkening ones, "you were all…  _involved_ , with your fingers in my hair and touching my throat." He suddenly found his mouth was quite dry, a tongue darting out to moisten his lips. "Your… tongue…"

John's eyes flickered down to Sherlock's lips and back up again, his eyes seeming torn between the two. "Yes." He cleared his throat, yet when he spoke again there was an unfamiliar raw tone to it that Sherlock had not heard before. "My tongue. I… yeah."

And this, Sherlock knew, was why it was a terrible, awful, painstakingly bad idea for John to be in his room, on his bed, in the dark: he was now in a staring match with a man who was looking at him with all the transparency of a window and he could see as clear as day where John's mind was and where it would take them – not that Sherlock was so hesitant to allow it. Not that he didn't want John to reach for him. Not that he didn't want to feel John's lips on his. Not that he didn't -

"Sherlock," John whispered roughly, interrupting his thoughts with his continued fixated gaze, "you may have to ask me to leave."

"I – why?"

"Because if you don't - " John leaned closer, further until the breath of his words fell upon Sherlock's lips with a solid, staggering heat, " - you're going to find yourself flat on your back in a few seconds."


	45. Teach Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: A small one to be sure, but hopefully the content will make up for it. And it IS less than 24hrs after the last one. So. Yes. BECAUSE I ADORE YOU.**
> 
> **< 3**
> 
> **Comments will help me die a happy lady!**

**Chapter Forty-Five**

What John learned that night was that, when it came down to it, the worst thing that Sherlock Holmes could possibly do in a darkened room on a rather comfortable bed was say John's name. The heat between them certainly didn't help, nor did the closeness of the man's body or the slightly wide-eyed realisation of what John was suggesting alighting in his eyes like the flicker of a flame. Perhaps if he had stayed silent, or even if he had just said something incredibly awkward and out of place it wouldn't have ended up being a problem, but as usual Sherlock seemed incapable of saying anything other than John's name in the heat of a moment that neither of them had been expecting – it also didn't help that it cracked down the middle and, with it, cracked John's ability to control himself.

Within moments John had pushed Sherlock down and, without a second to spare, was kissing him.

This kiss was not like the others.

The fact that John could not see Sherlock clearly and therefore leaving one of his senses limited seemed to simply work to heighten the others; as he crushed his lips to Sherlock's perfect cupids bow he became blisteringly aware of the rush of breath from Sherlock's lips as John allowed his chest to press against his, capturing the slightly minty heat against his demanding kiss and pushing away the space it created with fierce determination. He could feel the hesitation in Sherlock's response, the few seconds where doubt flooded his mind and fought against the desire to feel Sherlock's body properly beneath his own but, blissfully, those seconds were sparse – to his complete and utter surprise he felt long arms moving from beneath the duvet and sliding up to wrap around his torso, pulling John closer as Sherlock seemed to awaken to the emotions behind the kiss and met them with a blind fearlessness; John was not being gentle, he was not trying to coax Sherlock into intimacy... the situation had done that for him. In the dark of the room and with nothing but thin layers of material separating them from the burgeoning mess of body heat and limbs, intimacy was something that needed no encouragement.

It wasn't enough. John shifted himself slightly, breaking the kiss with a small huff of breath as he reached down to grab the duvet cover roughly between his fumbling fingers, dragging it from Sherlock's body and throwing it to the side before allowing himself a moment to take in what he had revealed of the slender man currently staring up at him with hazy eyes and slightly parted lips; the soft material of Sherlock's black pyjama top had ridden up slightly in the midst of John's seemingly welcome enthusiasm, a thin line of smooth, pale skin mocking him from his position above and dragging from him a sound that he was unsure he had ever made before – a low, raw rumble in the back of his throat that sounded so predatory and so very  _heated_  that John was shocked at even himself... but it didn't matter. It didn't matter. The teasing skin and the sudden awareness of Sherlock's slightly staggered breathing ripped him back into the moment and he found himself practically slamming his lips back down onto Sherlock's with such fervour that the most pathetic, delightful whimper vibrated from Sherlock's throat and tore away any remaining self-control that John had been holding onto and rendered him utterly useless to resolve.

They had too quickly reached the point that they had the first time that they had kissed, that is to say the moment that John realised he needed to stop; he was aching to taste Sherlock, to kiss him so deeply and thoroughly that he would still have the taste of him on his tongue the next morning – he could barely fathom it, the reality of the situation and the fact that here he was, kissing his best friend like his life depended on it and there was  _nothing_  wrong with it whatsoever; Sherlock's lips were as soft as any girl's, just as responsive, just as warm and dynamic and  _was that a moan?_  God, yes, it might have been, a small noise escaping from Sherlock's slightly parted lips as John pulled away to instead brush his lips over his jaw, such a graceful jaw, so pointed and smooth and no, he had to get back to those lips and he had to taste them just a little -

His tongue slipped out and across the smooth surface of Sherlock's kiss, his breath hitching ever so slightly in his throat as he tasted the remnants of toothpaste used three hours ago; he knew that this was the point where he should pull away, let them catch their breath, let himself believe that he had some sort of discipline enough to stop himself from continuing but that was impossible when suddenly Sherlock was allowing his lips to separate and opening up John's world into the deep, heady aroma and sensation of being able to dart a curious tongue into the dark warmth and feel the slick, very much alive curling of a tongue with no knowledge of which direction to take. He knew that Sherlock had never done this, he knew that he had never experienced the sensation of another tongue against his but that made it all the more intoxicating to know that he was Sherlock's first, in everything. He used every ounce of willpower within him to take it slowly, to slide his tongue against Sherlock's and then pull it back and focus on the movement of the kiss rather than progress with his desire to taste more, go deeper; it wouldn't have been inaccurate to say that trying to control the motions of his tongue was battling against the inordinate willpower it took not to let his hands dip down to Sherlock's waistband and find their way to the skin that waited there, tantalising and teasing him, but somehow he was managing it. Somehow he was still in control, despite feeling utterly without it.

Almost as if reading John's mind, Sherlock pulled away from the kiss and took a few breaths, closing his eyes for a moment. "John, I don't... I'm not sure..."

"We don't have to do that," John murmured, pushing forward gently to brush a kiss, two kisses, three against Sherlock's somewhat swollen lips, "we don't have to. We can just kiss, no tongue, it's fine -"

"No, I -"

"Just lips, it's all right."

Sherlock opened his eyes, frustration glowing across the minuscule distance between them. "No, it was... the feeling was... I don't know how to do it right, but it was  _nice_ , I..." He floundered a little, grasp on John's back tightening in his self-irritation for a moment. "If you could just show me?"

John hesitated; he didn't want Sherlock to feel obliged to do this for his sake, and no surge of hormones in the world – no matter how powerful – would make him think that it was worth forcing the man to do something he didn't want to do just because John himself was all too easily getting carried away with the situation. "Are you sure, Sherlock? You don't have to, you don't have to do anything at all if you don't want to..."

"I want to learn," Sherlock insisted, suddenly sitting up straight – John found himself wondering at the strength of his stomach muscles – and moving his hands so that they were behind him, supporting himself on the bed; John was now pretty much kneeling up either side of one of Sherlock's long legs, arms at his sides. "I want to learn, John. So teach me."

Had it not come from Sherlock's lips John was relatively sure that the simple request would have had no reasonable effect whatsoever; as it happened the imploring tone alongside Sherlock's nebulous gaze whipped up within him an ache-filled yearning to throw the teenager back down on the bed and pin his wrists above his head - no, it was far too intense, far too strong, these feelings of want and need and desperation, it was completely inappropriate when Sherlock was genuinely asking to be taught how to kiss... John would have to work very hard indeed to suppress the appetite he had never realised could be quite so powerful within his own body: Sherlock was a beginner. Sherlock had never been in a similar situation with a man  _or_  a woman, and therefore it was John's responsibility to him to ensure that he did not go too far, too soon. Though he was determined not to treat Sherlock like a delicate little flower, he certainly had to make sure he was not putting his own awakening needs before Sherlock's.

So he would have to take this slowly.

"All right." John reached up with both hands and placed them lightly upon Sherlock's shoulders. "Just... kiss me. Like usual. Just lips."

"But I -"

"Trust me," John cut across him in gentle tones, nodding reassuringly, "just... trust me. Kiss me."

The slightest narrowing of his gaze and a flicker of trepidation passed over Sherlock's face, eyes skating between John's mottled-blue stare and the lips he was supposed to be kissing before he gave a small nod, pushing himself up (John found he rather liked being the taller one) and hovering a few centimetres from John's lips as he allowed his gaze to flit one more time to meet John's – the effect hadn't changed. The intensity was so thick that John was almost certain that the oxygen in the room was depleting, so ridiculous though it was that a single stare could cause such ramifications; it was almost painful in its own way, the knowledge that he couldn't simply stare into those pools of verdigris for the rest of the evening – but oh, no, it wasn't so terrible when instead Sherlock was pressing forward and brushing his lips carefully, intently against John's and was letting those eyes flutter closed so as to truly allow himself to lose his way and fall into the moment. It was actually the very  _opposite_  of terrible. John let his own eyes drift shut as he steadied his grasp on Sherlock's shoulders and allowed the kiss to harden just slightly, just a little, just enough to make his stomach jolt and the very ends of his fingers tingle.

It made it easier to control himself when they were kissing like this. Rather than the heady, heated, tension-fuelled feel of Sherlock's body against his he instead was gifted with space between them, allowing his head to remain a little clearer as he brushed and caressed and moved his lips over Sherlock's gloriously warm and responsive kiss – he had to hand it to him, he'd picked up a  _lot_  over the last few days in regards to technique; there was no awkward over-dynamism or static hesitance anymore, it was all a constant ebb and flow of rhythm and gentle, insistent movement. He waited until he could feel Sherlock propelling himself forward into the kiss, the slight shake of his body beneath John's as he used his upper-body strength to push himself further up and into where their lips were joined encouraging John to take the next step, separating his lips and breathing out onto the soft texture that seemed to stretch and yearn towards him, to taste and understand: Sherlock's apparent craving for him was the most delicious validation that John had ever experienced and it felt like the most natural thing in his world to let his tongue skate lightly over Sherlock's lower lip, not going any further so as to let Sherlock know that the pacing was all on him, completely within his control. A finger escaped from his gentle grip on Sherlock's shoulder and edged towards his friend's collarbone, the ensuing whispering caress over the warm skin causing the man below him to shiver, the tiniest tremble that exhaled in a shaking breath as Sherlock's lips seemed to part more.

"Tell me what to do _..._ "

"I don't need to," John breathed back, finger trembling as it slipped against the bare skin once more, their lips still touching, "it'll be instinctual, just..."

He slid his tongue forward to trace over Sherlock's full lower lip once more, darting, sampling the unique flavour; he sighed, heart racing beneath his chest as Sherlock exhaled unsteadily again – there was a suspended moment of doubt, John's confidence starting to stagger whilst he considered the idea that he had expected too much of the dark-haired, beautiful cacophony of limbs beneath him. As he made the decision to pull away and slow the situation down, the warmth and softness of a tentative tongue slipped against the edge of his lip, briefly touching before treating to safety; John could feel every single muscle in his body tense from the simple sensation, a great deal of effort going into extorting within himself waves of willpower and complete and utter determination to stay sane and calm and not to impress upon Sherlock too much pressure -

John needn't have worried so much. Sherlock's tongue found its way back to John's lip, John meeting it instantly with a gliding sweep of his own; Sherlock seemed to jerk slightly, startled at the contact, but it was with a hesitant persistence that Sherlock flicked the curled warmth once more against the ridge of their kiss and John again moved to meet the moist heat and brushed it against the centre of a tongue that tasted of something deeper than spearmint toothpaste and was altogether more satisfying to him. He was unable to stop himself from shifting closer, his hands moving from Sherlock's shoulders to instead press their palms over the elegant collarbone taunting him and his thumbs skating intently over the skin beneath Sherlock's pyjama top. A jolt of raw want burned all the way from his chest to his lower abdomen as Sherlock's slender hands moved from where they had been supporting himself and instead came to rest, solid and unequivocally real, on John's mid-thigh; the fingers spread themselves out almost as if to hold on, the knowledge that Sherlock was so intent on increasing the heat of the kiss – his tongue slipping and sliding against John's with growing certainty – that he would strain his stomach muscles in order to do so making the low rumble in the back of John's throat grow a little more in volume and the very epitome of  _base_.

The words were dragged from him like molten fire. "You should have made me leave," he breathed against Sherlock's lips as his fingers reached up to tangle themselves into Sherlock's messy curls, "you should have physically forced me out."

He felt increased pressure of fingertips on his thighs, Sherlock reacting to his words before the boy could even properly respond with words – and what words they were. "No. No. I couldn't have touched you, I knew I couldn't have touched you -"

John could feel his head start to spin. "You're touching me now, though." He slid his forehead against Sherlock's briefly, shaking his head slowly, in a state of half-amusement, half-amazement at the rush of hormones he had not been able to feel in what felt like an eternity. "You could make me go now, you could push me off of you..."

"John..."

"But don't," John laughed throatily, "oh, god, please don't."

"I wasn't planning on it," Sherlock responded with a tiny smile, shaking his head. "I... well. I'm still awake. So you might as well stay and... entertain me."

A flicker of a grin twitched at the edges of John's lips. "Entertain you? I don't know what you mean." He leaned down and brushed a kiss once more over Sherlock's flushed lips.

Sherlock's arms slid around John's waist and locked him tight against him, pulling away only to mingle his words within the heated breath of his best friend. "More of that. Much, much more of  _that."_


	46. Fighting Chance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: Anyone given up on me yet? o_O God, I hope not. Because I still adore you all. So fricking much. Short sentences. Because I can't form big ones. AT ALL.**
> 
> **ANYWAYYYYYY... apologies, so much, for the few-week hiatus. I hope y'all understand that it's only ever because I don't think you guys deserve a half-hearted chapter, so if I'm not feeling it I'm not going to write anything. Today, however, was my lucky day and - thanks to an Anon on Tumblr - I got my arse in gear and HERE IT IS, the forty-sixth chapter!**
> 
>  
> 
> **So hope you enjoy it, guys. Comments are so fucking adored I can't even EXPLAIN IT.**

**Chapter Forty-Six**

_John,_

_It's been a while since your last e-mail. Just a friendly reminder that if we don't attempt to make our communication a regular occurrence you won't see any of the benefits that we're hoping to work towards._

_Get in touch soon?_

_Jim_

**\- X -**

The truth was, regardless of what Jim Moriarty might think, it hadn't been an intentional lack of communication. John's life in the last three weeks had so entirely been turned upside down that he hadn't even had a chance to think about what he was supposed to be doing with his life – counselling for his depression, finding a place to live for next year, small things – and that, he realised, was probably not a good thing. He knew deep down that despite of the fun he was having, despite three weeks of being in the company of this amazing family, despite the many secret, shy, heated kisses and near-misses with his best friend and the most definitely life-altering change of events since he had first arrived at the Holmes cottage, he was still depressed. He knew that he was simply distracted. One thing that John Watson was not was an idiot; depression didn't just disappear because of… well, whatever it was he was currently experiencing. It wasn't gone. It was lingering, somewhere temporary, beneath the surface and at some point he knew it would come back to bite him firmly on the arse and remind him that he should have dealt with it whilst he was in a good frame of mind to do so.

Equally, he didn't want to go near it. He wanted this distraction to last as long as possible. He wanted the constant rush of adrenaline and warmth of knowing he was in good company to last forever. So, perhaps idealistically, he wanted to remain in denial for a while longer, and if that meant ignoring his responsibilities for a while then that was what he would do.

Or, that had been the plan.

"Don't you think you should respond to him?"

John glanced up from his phone, the low evening sun coming in through the conservatory windows and momentarily blinding him as he squinted across to meet the serious gaze of his best friend. "What?"

"Your counsellor." Sherlock glanced away and down at the laptop screen and the study plan he'd been going over for the last twenty minutes. "He's probably wondering what's happened to you."

A smile twitched upon John's lips. "He's not the only one."

Sherlock's fingers hovered over the keyboard, a flicker of something like amusement skating over his long, pale face. "Stop trying to distract me by attempting to be charming. You came here under the condition that you keep in regular contact with him and, so far, you've been a complete disappointment."

"Just to him, I hope," John teased, reaching out with a socked foot and nudging Sherlock's shin with his toe. "Besides, I'm feeling fine. I haven't needed to talk to him."

Sherlock's almond-shaped eyes flitted up to meet his again. "Just because you've been diverted doesn't mean you don't need to talk to him. You know as well as I do that depression -"

"Yes, yes, I know," John sighed, letting his foot fall to the floor in irritation, "I know I'm not just magically better, but I'm…  _enjoying_  myself. For the first time in a while. I don't want to turn that on its head quite yet."

"At some point you're going to have to deal with it, John, and I would rather – for your sake – that you deal with it whilst you're still standing."

John's eyebrows pulled down into a frown. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock's eyes left his immediately. "Nothing."

"No," John insisted, dropping his phone onto the cushion next to him and leaning forward, "tell me. What do you mean,  _still standing_?"

"You…" A sigh, Sherlock closing the laptop and setting it aside as he leaned forward to mirror John, steepling his fingers together and resting his chin upon his fingertips. He did not meet John's gaze. "All right, but don't get angry at me."

"…all right."

"When we first started talking, when we first met… well. You were a complete mess." Sherlock glanced at John for a moment before he went back to looking at the floor. "You weren't really  _there_ to see yourself, the way you were… barely standing. It's difficult for me to put it into words, John, as I only saw you a few times before I started becoming something of a distraction to you and much of that communication was via an instant messaging service, however it was evident to me upon our first meeting in the very least that I had severely underestimated quite how severe your depression was."

John stared openly at Sherlock, partly aghast and partly confused. "I don't understand. You never said anything…"

"How could I have? You barely knew me. I was hardly a smudge on your radar."

Well  _that_ was ridiculous. "Okay, you must not remember the first few weeks like I do, then, because you were  _much_  more than just a blip on my radar, Sherlock."

Sherlock shook his head. "I didn't mean that I wasn't a presence in your life, merely that you had more to be getting on with than simply indulging my desire to talk to you."

John was momentarily struck by Sherlock's words. "Your… hang on, your desire to talk to me? That's a pretty strong way to put it, and not at all how I would've described it."

It was Sherlock's turn to look as if he found John's assumptions rather ridiculous. "To repeat your own phrasing, you were  _much_  more than just a blip on my radar. Need I remind you that, time and time again, I was the one to reach out and initiate conversation?"

John blinked. "Yeah, but… that was for studying. That was all in the name of academia. You said so yourself, multiple times!"

Sherlock waved this off with a flutter of fingers. "Details."

"Yeah, well, the details are pretty important," John muttered, rolling his eyes, "especially as apparently I was reading the whole situation wrong from the start."

The ghost of a smile flitted across Sherlock's blatantly amused face. "You have quite the talent for avoiding what's directly in front of you, John."

"Explain it to me."

"Your talent?"

John shook his head. "No. Explain to me how on earth I missed the fact that you actually wanted to talk to me rather than just… force me to study."

"Oh, well." Sherlock leaned back, crossing one leg gracefully over the other. "It's not your fault. I was in denial right from the offset. Disregarding the fact that I'd never chosen to tutor another student in the entire year and a half that I was a part of the PAT program and miraculously I decided to tutor you, I was quite determined to maintain a professional distance from the moment you sent me that delightful rejection e-mail."

John was lost for words. "Delightful?"

This time Sherlock did nothing to suppress the small, private grin that curved the edges of his full lips. "Oh yes. My favourite part, I believe, was the clearly mocking way that you quoted 'services' to me. As if what I had to offer was of little consequence."

"Ah." John bit his lower lip. "Yeah, I was a bit rude."

"On the contrary, it simply made me even more determined to convince you." Sherlock's pale eyes were sparkling, brought to life simply by remembering that first night of communication. "I'd never been told 'no' before in my life, at least not in such a straightforward, stubborn manner. I found it rather… interesting. Hence why I was so intent on talking to you."

John was still immensely confused. "But you never  _said_  that. You acted as if you didn't want to talk to me at all, about personal stuff anyway."

"I hardly knew  _myself_  just how much I wanted to talk to you. You have to understand, John, I'd never wanted such a thing in my life, people were just an additional irritation, background noise. I could try and explain to you in so many words but the crux of the matter is simply that I  _was_  intrigued by you and I  _did_  want to communicate with you. I didn't know what you looked like, I didn't know what sort of person you were, I knew nothing about you other than the fact that Jo was concerned that you were in a bad place and that you needed academic assistance… and then you sent that e-mail. If I'm to be completely honest with you, John, I did rather a lot of digging in those minutes between your responses and what I found left me quite unable to stay away."

John's eyes narrowed. "What sort of digging?"

Sherlock's face took on a look that could only be described as  _abashed_. "Oh, well. You know. Hacking into... things."

"Things. Things such as my academic files? I already knew that." A flush worked its way to Sherlock's cheeks; John was suddenly aware that his suspicions were not quite broad enough. "Wait. You hacked into other things too?"

The pale blue gaze that had been so gloriously focused on his was now playing at avoidance. "I wouldn't like to say."

"That's a yes, then. Jesus, Sherlock." John threw himself back on the cushions behind him, deeply irritated. "What, my computer too?"

"No!" Sherlock rapidly uncrossed his legs, leaning forward again with wide eyes. "No, no, I would have never done that, John. I crossed some lines, I won't deny, but never that one. No. You must believe that I would never have done that, then and now."

John stared at him for a moment, pursing his lips; well, as far as he could tell… Sherlock wasn't lying. Thankfully. "All right. Good. So, what, my medical records?"

"Yes. I wanted to see if you'd been officially diagnosed with anything. And, as we've said, your academic profile. There was a… picture on there. Your student ID photo."

"Christ, don't tell me you printed it out and slept with it by your bed?" John found himself grinning despite his initial irritation. "Not that I wouldn't be flattered… and a bit weirded out, maybe…"

"Of course not," Sherlock said, looking genuinely offended, "I just… looked at it. Now and again. Just in case I had met you or seen you around cavorting around campus."

John grimaced. "Bit creepy, Sherlock."

"I don't go into things with half a heart," Sherlock agreed, his cheeks beautifully pink. "I apologise for that. Would you believe me if I told you that it wasn't an act of obsession and rather an act of confusion?"

John shrugged. "If I had any idea what that meant I might be able to."

"It's as I've already explained – I had never had any desire to speak to anyone on a personal level before. The idea that you were so intriguing to me for no rhyme nor reason was intensely confusing for me and I suppose I hoped that seeing your face and seeing more than just words on a screen would take the power out of it, as they say. I was immensely frustrated. Having access to that photo was supposed to help."

John nodded slowly, taking it in. "Yeah. Yeah, okay, I think I get it. But it didn't help."

"No," Sherlock confessed, sighing, "it didn't help. It made you real, it made you someone who was physically present in the same world that I existed within and made me even more aware that I was finding myself stuck within an unfamiliar situation. It reached a point where I was so irritated by my want to engage you within conversation – as a companion, John, I must make that abundantly clear, nothing more than that so early on – that I simply  _had_  to meet you. And then, of course, you presented me with the perfect opening, an excuse to see you and put all of the confusion to rest."

"Ah." John was nodding more eagerly now, undeniably drawn into the story from Sherlock's point of view. "The party?"

"Yes. The moment you mentioned it I was filled with a blaze of triumph, a genuine thrill; perhaps I should have realised at that moment that I was without control of the situation, that if I did meet you I would find my intent to disregard the growing sentiment completely scuppered, yet I didn't see it. I didn't acknowledge it. I simply encouraged you, rather desperately I might add, to go to Greg's party, all the while utterly certain of the outcome."

"You didn't seem desperate."

"I was," Sherlock admitted with a roll of his eyes, "I was shifting and fidgeting and staring so intently at the screen that my eyes were blurred…" He trailed off, breaking eye-contact with John and looking out to the blaze of the setting sun, momentarily lost in a train of thought. "It's funny, looking back. A little shameful."

John stared, lips separated, at the man opposite him; his heart tugged mercilessly, demanding that he go over to him and place a hand on his shoulder, his cheek, his lips – but he couldn't. It was too risky. There would be a moment for that later. "Don't say that."

"It's true. I was acting like a fool, a lovestruck fool. And that was before I even… you know."

"Yeah."

"It's embarrassing."

"No," John said, shaking his head forcefully, "no, it's not embarrassing. Do you remember how I reacted when I first saw you? Do you remember how long it took me just to turn around after hearing your voice for the first time in person? Bloody hell, do you remember," he was murmuring now, low and intent, "how I reacted to the first time I heard your voice coming from my laptop? It was like being punched in the stomach."

Sherlock allowed his eyes to flit to John's. "Really?"

It was obscenely difficult not to get on his knees and crawl over to the shame-faced genius currently looking at him like a confused puppy; John had to clench his fists just to restrain himself. "Yeah, really. It was… so stupid. Your voice, it was all deep and low and...  _smug_ , it made my blood boil and my hands tingle and this  _is_  fucking embarrassing, okay, yes, I totally understand what you mean now." He was laughing, though, a grin aching in his cheeks. "But it's not something to be ashamed of, Sherlock. It was a new experience for you, you're entitled to feel confused and to be completely bamboozled by things you'd never felt before.  _I'm_  the one who should be embarrassed for acting like a flustered teenager just from hearing your voice…"

Sherlock allowed a smile. John forced himself to continue, still relatively sure that Sherlock was feeling like a twat.

"As for you appearing in that bloody kitchen,  _well._  That was probably the most terrified I've ever been in my life, or at least the most shocked. Looking back I should probably have realised why you were trying to force me to go out or at least been suspicious that you of all people would be encouraging me to go to a party when I knew just how much you hated them, but apparently I was a bit blindsided at the time. You have that effect." He began fiddling with his jumper, pushing the sleeves up to his elbows. "And then you were there, mocking Greg, the voice I'd heard on my laptop actually there, just metres from me, and I didn't know  _what_  the hell to do. Time quite literally slowed down, and that's not an exaggeration. I felt as if all of my muscles had locked into place, I pretty much used the kitchen counter as a way of forcing my body to twist around just so that I could face you."

Sherlock drummed his fingertips lightly against his knee. "Mm. You did look a little shell-shocked."

"Which I'm sure you revelled in."

An amused chuckle. "Perhaps a little."

"Whereas you didn't seem phased  _at all_."

"You have no idea," Sherlock muttered, reaching up and touching his lips with his fingertips. "I didn't even notice you when I first walked in, I just saw the usual cluster of people and planned on escaping as soon as I possibly could. When Greg first said your name I genuinely thought… I thought…"

John nodded encouragingly. "C'mon, I've embarrassed myself. Your turn."

"I've already embarrassed myself," the genius grumbled in response, "but, fine. I thought that my stomach was going to fly from my throat, it was quite unlike any feeling I'd experienced before. My eyes instantly flew to the back of your head and, yes, I'll admit that I saw your initial response – your fists clenching, the muscles in your shoulders tensing, I knew what effect I was having on you. And, before you ask, yes. I enjoyed it. And feared it. Perhaps not the last time either one of us experienced both of those at once." There was a moment of heat, a fluttering of intensity; John curled his fingers tight against his palm once more, willing himself to stay on his side of the room. "Naturally I was shaken even if I had known I would see you there that night, if only because I had expected – foolishly – to be in control as to when we would first come face to face. And then you turned around and I saw you and… well. It brings us back to our initial conversation."

It had gone completely from John's mind. "Er, you may have to remind me."

Sherlock's gaze was unexpectedly and suddenly serious. "Your depression, John."

"Oh."

"Anything I say now, you have to understand that it is not meant to offend you. If I have to make up for every word I'm about to speak I will indeed attempt to do so, but…" Sherlock's teeth found his lower lip momentarily, hesitation evident. "I said that I'd had access to a picture of you, and that I had looked at it often."

John nodded, apprehensive. "Yeah."

"The man who'd had that photo taken was not the man I found myself faced with in that kitchen." Sherlock took in a breath through his teeth, clearly unsure as to how to continue. "You… looked… sunken. Thin. Too thin. Your eyes, they were swollen underneath from excessive sleep and you held yourself in such a way that invited the image of an animal knowing that it's facing its predator – not that I assume that I was the predator, not at all, more likely that it was the simply the pressure of a socialised environment. But… well. That's it. You looked entirely defeated yet at the same time you were fighting it all the way, and that is what I mean by wanting you to fight whilst you're still standing. You were on the floor at that moment, John, utterly beaten down, and though you were still fighting at that point you have an advantage now. A true advantage. So perhaps I am not the best person to encourage you now, seeing as I have failed many times before now to help myself when I, too, am standing, but I wouldn't forgive myself if I didn't tell you…  _advise_  you… to try."

John's eyes flickered to the phone sitting beside him, Sherlock's words washing over him alongside a sense of understanding, a knowledge that if anyone had read John correctly at that point in his life and could probably still read him better than anybody ever could – with or without his amazing observational talents – it was the man staring at him with all the intensity and determination he could possibly muster. "Try."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. Whilst you have a fighting chance."

**\- X -**

_Jim,_

_Sorry for not getting in touch sooner, things have just been… distracting. It's a good thing, entirely, but I know that I shouldn't allow it to get in the way of making progress. I've been encouraged today not to let the distractions become a coping mechanism and instead to try and fight this thing whilst I'm in a good place. So. Yeah. Here I am. E-mailing you._

_One thing I started worrying about today is where I'm supposed to live next year. Everybody I know has already sorted themselves out and I let my depression get in the way – as well as the distractions – and now I'm probably absolutely fucked. I can't get accommodation on campus again as a second year student and all of the affordable places have most likely been taken by students who didn't let their personal problems interfere with what is probably something which is bloody important. So I need to sort that out. That's playing on my mind and making me feel anxious._

_Also a bit worried about going back to uni. It's all very well letting myself be distracted during the summer, but at some point I have to go back to reality and work my arse off. Second year – or first year of med training – is going to be a whole different thing completely to the year just gone, much more intense and I'm going to have to focus a whole lot more than I did this year. I know that the distractions won't last forever and that at some point I'm going to start sinking again, and – if I've even passed this year – I'm going to struggle._

_John_

**\- X -**

"John.  _John._  Wake up."

"Mmrf. No."

A hand on his shoulder, shaking him hard. "Yes,  _now_. Your sister's on the phone."

Still only half-conscious, John shrugged the hand off and rolled over onto his side, facing away from the deep, gruff tones which could only belong to one person. "Sleeping."

"You left your phone in my room, John," Sherlock hissed, sounding oddly panicked, "and now she's asking  _questions_!"

Eyes flying open and a cold chill shuddering through his body, John twisted around and stared at his best friend in horror. "What? You… you answered it?!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, shoving the phone under John's nose. "It might have been an emergency, what was I supposed to do?"

John snatched the phone from Sherlock's grasp, shooting him a sleepy, irritated glare. " _Not_  answer it. Always. Never answer my phone if it's Harry, all right? Never."

An amused female voice slipped out of the speakers, quiet but audible in the quiet of the dark room. "I  _can_  hear you, you know."

Throwing one more glare up at Sherlock, John pressed the phone to his ear. "What do you want?"

"Hello to you too, bro."

"Yeah, yeah, hello." He could feel practically feel the waves of hesitation coming from Sherlock standing beside him, awkwardly lingering without knowing whether he should stay or leave; still irritated, John reached up and grabbed Sherlock's wrist, pulling him down until he was perched on the edge of the bed. "What do you want?"

A snort came from the other end of the phone. "What, you're allowed to call me at unspeakably early hours of a morning and I'm not?"

Another voice, quieter, further away. "Tell him I say hi."

John rolled his eyes. "Great, Katie's there too. So you're both calling to torture me, I assume?"

"Bit rude, she's only being nice. John says hi, babe."

"No I bloody don't."

Harry laughed. "Yeah you do. How come your phone was in Sherlcock's bedroom?"

John's eyes flitted to Sherlock, teeth gritting as he felt the urge to both laugh and swear; christ, he never knew whether to love or hate her. "I don't even need to correct you, you  _know_  that's not his name."

"Pfft. Answer the question or I'll keep saying it. Sherlcock. Sherlcock. Sherlcock. Sherlcock and Piecroft -"

"Fucking hell, I left it in there earlier! What does it matter?"

The smirk in her tone radiated through the phone and against his slightly flushed cheek. "He answered it pretty quick. Almost as if it were… on his bed."

John's eyes fluttered closed. "It was in his room. It wasn't on silent. It probably woke him up and scared the shit out of him."

Sherlock frowned beside him. "I wasn't  _scared_."

"Is that him?" Harry was practically crowing her delight, the rustling of what was no doubt the bedclothes crackling through the phone and into his ear. "Ahahaha, he's in your room, isn't he? Is he on your bed? Are you two having sex? Are you using protection?"

"Harry, for fuck's sake…"

"Oh holy shit, you  _are_  fucking him, aren't you? I mean, not right now, or at least I hope not – you're terrible at it if you are, can't hear him moaning or anything -"

"Please stop," John begged, letting his head fall forward until his chin touched his chest, "please, please stop. We're not having sex. We haven't had sex. He is in here, he is sitting on the bed but  _that is all_."

Katie's voice came from the background of the call. "Did he kiss him, though?"

"Katie wants to know if you kissed him."

"Yes, the point of speakerphone is that I can hear you both," John said impatiently, cheeks burning as his gaze flickered to Sherlock and saw his open-mouthed shock at what he assumed was his mentioning of sex. "That's none of your business, either of you."

"That's a yes," Katie whispered.

"That's totally a yes," Harry confirmed, "which makes my brother officially as gay as a vicar. Mum's gonna blow her nut."

"I'm not -" John looked at Sherlock again, hesitating. "Look, I'm not gay. I'm most definitely not gay."

"But you  _have_  kissed him, right?"

"Is that why you called me? To grill me about Sherlock?"

"It's almost been a month, John." She sounded almost as if she were scolding him. "I want to know if I have to give you my guitar or not."

He'd forgotten about that bet. "I wanted your car."

"Sounds as if you're not getting either. Come on, tell us. Do I have to give you my guitar or not?"

_None of her business._ "Harry…"

"I'm just going to keep asking unless you tell me. Or I'll talk more about you having sex with him. And being terrible at it. Are you hitting the g-spot? Because I think that's supposed to be amazing or something -"

"Stop talking about his g-spot, fucking hell!" John's head swivelled to face Sherlock, eyes widening in horror as he saw a very bright red blush working its way up to the genius's curved cheeks. "Oh, hell… no, Sherlock, I'm not making plans, don't start freaking out -"

"Oh, well, you haven't had sex then. Is he a virgin?" Harry was still happily babbling away, clearly intent on fulfilling her threat. "Gotta take it slow and steady if he is. Has he ever come before? He has to at least have masturbated, I've never met a man before who hasn't -"

"I'm not asking him if he's wanked before, Harry, christ!" He realised at that moment that he should have made Sherlock leave, seeing instantly the way that Sherlock's body froze and feeling the sheer extent of his discomfort emanating in the short distance between them. "All right, all right. Stop. Stop talking."

"At least you know what you're doing if you give him a hand job, you know what feels good -"

" _Stop talking!_ "

There was a gratifying moment of silence before Katie's voice piped up once more, sounding louder than before. "If you tell her whether she needs to give you her guitar or not she might stop, John."

"Fine. All right." He dragged in a deep breath. "No, Harry, you don't need to give me your guitar."

"HA! I knew it! I fucking  _knew_  it! You're in love with him!"

John was still watching Sherlock. "Shut up."

"Admit it."

"I'm not admitting anything."

He could practically hear her pouting. "Fine, if you're not going to tell me… put him on the phone."

John's fingers clenched over the handset. "Hell no."

"If  _you_  won't give me the details then I'm sure he will. Put Sherlcock on the phone."

"There is no way in hell that I'm going to give him the phone." Sherlock's eyes shifted over to him, meeting his gaze. "You've already spoken to him once tonight, once is enough."

"Yeah, he has quite a nice voice actually. Posh. Deep. Bet it melts you like butter, you big gay."

"I'm not -"

She was laughing, clearly enjoying herself. "Yeah, I remember. You aren't gay. Just gay for him. So how was it?"

Katie spoke again. "Did you do it in the rain? Kiss him, I mean?"

Flashbacks of their first kiss flooded over him, his eyes hazing over slightly as his eyes flitted down to rest upon Sherlock's lips. "Not in the rain. Though we'd just come in from a rainstorm."

The two girls sighed in unison, Katie sounding almost forlorn. " _So_ romantic."

"Fucking sickening," Harry mused, though her tone at least suggested that she agreed with Katie. John could feel his own cheeks burning quite as much as Sherlock's had earlier. "So I'm guessing you two are keeping this on the down low for now?"

"Yes," John said firmly, nodding, "so please don't say anything to Mum or Dad. Or anyone. Just... just keep it to yourselves for now, okay?"

"Chill, John, I'm not going to say anything to the 'rents about it. Last thing we want is Mum threatening to make you homeless too."

There was a moment of silence; regardless of Harry's joking tone John was well aware of the sore subject. "Yeah. Yeah, of course. Sorry, Harry, should've realised that you -"

"It's cool, no worries. Old wounds, unimportant in the grand scheme of things." She sounded as if she meant it. "You deserve to be happy for a bit, before they start shitting all over your parade."

"Sherlock's mum suspects, though," John said quietly, bringing the phone closer to his lips. "She asked me about it a few days after I arrived, and that was before anything even happened between us."

"Oh yeah? But you're still there, so I'm guessing she didn't try to murder you in your sleep for turning her baby boy into a raging homo."

"She actually kind of encouraged it. I say 'kind of'... she absolutely, 100% encouraged it. She was the one who told me to go after him at the end of the ball."

He practically heard Harry sit up. "Ball? What ball? There was a ball? You went to a fucking ball and kissed your boyfriend for the first time  _at a ball?!_ "

John's eyes rolled of their own accord. "All right, calm down. Yes, there was a ball and, no, we didn't kiss  _at_ the ball. After it. And he isn't my boyfriend."

"Right. Yeah. On the down low. So you're just super-special best friends."

"...not so sure about your phrasing, but yeah."

"Tell me everything.  _Everything_. Leave no stone unturned."

John sighed. "Harry, it's three-thirty in the morning..."

"Sherlcock. Piecroft. Sherlcock and Piecroft. John and Sherlcock, shagging in a tree -"

"Fine, fine, all right! All right, just... shut up and listen. No interruptions."

In Harry's defence, she  _did_  manage to stay quiet throughout the entire explanation; John went as far back as the day he first arrived, describing Sherlock's home, his family, the horrendous few days where it didn't look as if they'd ever get past Sherlock's new and awkward feelings. He found his voice shake slightly as he told her of Sherlock's outright confession of love, unable to look at his friend as he did so and finding his hands clenched as he moved on to the ball and seeing Sherlock in his tuxedo for the first time – none of that, of course, compared to trying to describe how it had felt to hear Sherlock play the violin, nor the tension between them the moment it had seemed that their alliance was over. By the time he reached their kiss his hands were trembling, so tightly they were curled; he was just reaching the point where their lips first touched when he felt a hand suddenly rest, light and warm, over his wrist; he broke off mid-sentence, eyes instantly upon Sherlock's. The sheer heat, raw adoration and genuine emotion in the teenager's eyes was almost enough to completely unspool him, his desire to hang up on his sister welling up powerfully within him until his thumb hesitated over the end-call button and he genuinely considered doing just that -

"Don't." A hesitant thumb brushed over the pale skin of John's inner wrist. "The sooner you indulge her, the sooner she'll leave you alone. She'll only call back if you hang up."

John moved the phone away from his face, covering the microphone. "I don't know if I have the willpower whilst you're looking at me like that."

A beautiful half-smile twitched at the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "Should I stop?"

"God, no."

A voice came out of the headset. "Cover the microphone all you like, boys, I can still hear you muttering away."

John frowned and brought the phone back up to his ear. "Then you know that I'd very much like to go now. So. Anything else?"

"Yes. Are you going back to Mum and Dad's at all this summer?"

He sighed again, his fingers idly tracing over Sherlock's slender hand. "I don't know. I was kind of planning on going straight back to uni as soon as I'm finished here, but as I don't have a place to live yet that might be a bit impossible. So, probably, yeah."

"She's proud of you, y'know. Mum. Tells me all the time I should try and be a bit more like you." She didn't sound even remotely bitter. "She's probably right, to be fair."

"No she isn't. You're fine the way you are."

"Sure I am," she snorted. "I'm a lesbian alcoholic who can't hold down a job. Shits and giggles."

John tensed. She'd never admitted the 'a' word before. "Harry, are you okay?"

"Fine, fine."

"Look, if you need me to come to you -"

"Please, you have your own shit to be dealing with – don't think I've forgotten about your depression, mate. And now you've got Sherlock to be getting on with too, which believe me won't be easy. It's never easy the first time."

He did not need for her to be specific to know which part of him and Sherlock she was referring to. "Which is why we're keeping it quiet for as long as possible."

"Yeah, well, that's what I did. And we all know how that turned out."

"Harry -"

"I'm fine, John," she insisted, her voice oddly soft, "so please don't go worrying about me. I've got Katie. And I'm working in a little coffee place in Chessington. So it's all good."

"Are you..." John tried to find the right words. "I don't know, are you... seeing anyone? Professionally? A group, maybe?"

Katie finally spoke again. "I'm taking her to a meeting next Thursday."

"Yeah, see? Got it all in hand. You don't need to be focusing on me, I've got it sorted." She was evidently just as stubborn as he was; he could tell from Sherlock's tiny smile that he was most likely thinking exactly the same thing. "And anyway, it's probably high time the lady and I tried to get some sleep. Got a morning shift tomorrow."

He nodded to himself, trying to piece all of the information together. "All right, yeah. Get some sleep. But you... look, Harry, I know it's awkward as hell, but if you need me..."

A brief moment of silence. "Yeah. I know."

"As long as you do."

"Same to you, bro."

"Yeah." He glanced over at Sherlock. "I'll remember."

Harry cleared her throat, taking a few moments before she spoke for the last time that night. "Let me know if you're swinging by Mum and Dad's. I'll come over."

A dialing tone met his ear; he didn't judge her for it. It had never been easy to be sentimental with each other – hell, it was easier being sentimental with Sherlock.

He put the phone down on the bed and gently took his wrist back from Sherlock. "Thanks for bringing that in. Sorry I snapped at you."

Sherlock stood instantly, taking a step back. "It's fine. I'll remember not to answer your phone from now on."

"No, no... you can. I was just tired. And cranky."

"Then maybe I'll just avoid you in the morning's." Sherlock offered him a small smile. "If you'd prefer."

"I don't mind, but it might be safer if you don't try and wake me up at three in the morning again." John smiled slightly, wanting to be sure that Sherlock knew he was only kidding around. "Unless the house is on fire, of course."

"Of course."

"Or, y'know. If you want to... entertain me."

Sherlock's lips separated, quiet for a few moments before he spoke. "Well... I did entertain you earlier. And have done for the last week. Quite a lot."

"True," John mused, lifting his legs and slipping them underneath the covers, "but I have a very short attention-span. So if you wanted to entertain me a little more..."

The genius took a small step towards the bed before hesitating. "You... you do mean now, don't you?"

John shifted over to the cold side of the bed, looking down at the space he had left before looking back up at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow. "If you expect me to send you away after that look you gave me earlier, you've got another thing coming."

**\- X -**

The day had come.

_The_  day.

The most important day of their lives.

Or, so Greg seemed to think.

"GENTLEMEN!" he roared, storming into the pub garden the Holmes family (and John) had settled themselves into an hour previously, all of them looking up from a rather feverish game of Blackjack; he looked tanned, healthy and all-round absolutely no different whatsoever. "THE SHOWMASTER HAS ARRIVED!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Oh,  _wonderful_."

Wanda stood up with a warm smile, edging her way out of the wooden bench and hurrying over to him with outstretched arms. "Gregory, dear, I'm so glad to see you arrived home safely! Are your parents with you?"

He allowed her to press a kiss to his cheek with no sign of discontent, grinning and shoving his hands in his pockets as he stepped back. "Yeah, they're just coming now."

"Wonderful."

"Greg!" Tim stepped forward, smiling genially and extended his hand for a firm handshake. "Good to see you, my boy, good to see you. You're looking as healthy as a horse! All that hockey, eh?"

"Gloria!" Wanda practically leapt forward as a dark-haired woman meandered around the corner, just as dark-skinned as Greg and every bit as beautiful. "It's been weeks! You weren't at the ball, whatever happened?"

"Michael," Mr. Holmes said with a nod, moving past Greg to shake hands with a man who looked nothing like Greg but seemed to hold all of the confidence and charm regardless, "you're looking well."

Greg dodged his way around Sherlock's parents and settled himself next to Mycroft (much to the older man's obvious exasperation), leaning on his arms as he peered at Sherlock and John over his sunglasses. "So. You two. Sorted?"

John kept his eyes studiously trained on Greg as he nodded, trying his best to appear nonchalant. "Yeah, yeah, absolutely. Back to normal, better than ever."

He did not need to look at Sherlock to know that the man had rolled his eyes. "We were hardly going to argue for the entire summer, particularly when my brother insisted on forcing us to spend time in the same house for three weeks. No patience for that sort of drama."

Mycroft said nothing, lifting the glass of red wine in front of him to his lips and taking a sip; Greg looked between them for a few moments before giving an emphatic nod, reaching out and taking John's half-empty glass of lager and downing it in one. "Ahh. Thanks mate, needed that." He gave his biggest shit-eating grin as John stared open-mouthed at him, clearly unimpressed. "Glad to hear it. I figured you were all right, considering... well. Considering Sherlock's text."

John's eyes instantly darted to Sherlock; had he let their secret roam free over  _text message_? To Greg, of all gossips? "I err... I didn't realise -"

"John, I spoke to Greg this morning via text message and we both came to an... understanding." Sherlock was positively glaring at him, eyes narrowed slight enough that it would be unnoticeable to anyone that wasn't a very, very panicked John. "We have a question for you."

"More a proposition, really." Apparently Greg couldn't stop grinning; John had never seen him look so jovial. "If you're up for it."

John couldn't help it; instantly his mind jumped to 'threesome', his stomach churning at the thought. He suddenly wished he had a glass of water. "I, um, think you should probably explain before my head explodes. Please."

The look Sherlock gave him informed him that the genius had almost certainly guessed where his mind had gone and was not at all amused. "Greg. If you'd like to do the honours."

"Nah," Greg said, waving his hand towards Sherlock and looking as if he were bestowing a gift upon Sherlock, "you go for it. It was your idea."

Sherlock's expression was mildly disgruntled. "Yes. Yes, I suppose it was. Fine." He turned towards John, looking so impossibly calm and not at all concerned at all about the part they'd have to play in the company of all of these people that John was momentarily stunned at his talent for acting. "I...  _we_  were wondering if you would like to move into Well Place for the next academic year."

John stared at him. "What? Move in? With... you?"

"We'll empty out the third bedroom," Sherlock advised meaningfully, cocking an eyebrow, "so you won't have to sleep on the sofa anymore."

"Or Sherlock's bed," Greg quipped, raising his eyebrows suggestively; both young men turned to glare at him, his eyes widening and his hands raising in defence as he leaned back from their consternation. "Whoah, whoah, too soon? All right, stop looking at me like you want to kill me, I was only kidding. I'm glad you two are mates again."

John felt a fierce rush of relief run through him at Greg's words - thank god. Thank god. Greg didn't know. Greg was still blissfully unaware.

"As I was saying, we can empty out the third bedroom for you and Mrs. Hudson can set up a bed and furniture for you. She's our landlady. I spoke to her this morning." The smallest twitch of lips trembled at the edge of Sherlock's mouth. "She's rather looking forward to meeting you, as it happens."

Greg leaned forward. "If you want to move in with us, that is."

Sherlock's lips separated, surprise etched on his pale face. "What a ridiculous statement to make. Of  _course_  John will want to live with us." He swivelled to face John, eyebrows drawing down into a frown. "Won't you?"

As John stared in shock at Sherlock, lips working over words that hadn't quite arrived in his mind yet, he became almost devastatingly aware of the sudden fear rippling in deep pools towards the back of Sherlock's gaze; it was almost as if Sherlock truly thought, somewhere in the recesses of his mind, that John would say no – that John didn't want to live with him. And Greg. Greg would be there too, of course.

The very idea of Sherlock truly being that ignorant was almost too endearing to bear. John reached forward and grabbed the edge of the table, digging his fingertips in as subtly as he could as he fought what was becoming a rather familiar urge to reach out and touch the curly-haired genius currently staring at him like a doe caught in headlights.

He sent his words directly towards Sherlock, not caring for a moment that both Greg and Mycroft were watching – let them take it however they wanted to. "Yes. Yes, Sherlock, of course I want to live with you. I would  _love_  to live with you." Quickly he turned to Greg. "Both of you. I'd love to, can't think of a better place to live."

Greg raised John's empty glass, eyes sparkling. "Brilliant! Awesome! Always wanted a third housemate, kind of like a buffer – just hoped it would be a woman, but..."

Sherlock scowled. "You don't need a buffer, I'm hardly  _that_ unpleasant."

"You set my  _coursework_  on fire for an  _experiment_!"

"You use that terrible recycled paper, I wanted to know how quickly it disintegrated in comparison to -"

"So much to look forward to," John groaned, placing his palms flat on the table and pushing himself into a standing position; Greg laughed, Sherlock allowing a small smile after a characteristic eye-roll, Mycroft still apparently pretending that he wasn't there as he continued to sip on his wine. "I'm going to get another round in. Another cider, Sherlock? Greg? Lager? It's on me, in celebration and all that."

As he waited for the elderly barman to pour his two lagers and a cider, his foot tapping idly on the wooden floor as his eyes circled the room, he felt a buzzing in his pocket; he slipped his hand into the confined space, inching his phone out into the open and quickly tapping through to read his text:

_**William:** _ _Are you sure?_

John smiled slightly. Definitely endearing in his ignorance, that one.

_Are you kidding? I'll have entertainment 24/7. And I guess the conversation isn't so bad either._

The two responding texts he received in quick succession made him laugh so much he almost knocked the drinks over.

_**William:** _ _If you really think my efforts in kissing are better than my conversational skills then I think we need to see other people. Next time I 'entertain' you we're having an hour-long discussion on the properties of copper first and you'll enjoy it, or so help me I will never kiss you again._

_**William:** _ _Maybe half an hour. There's only so much you can say about copper._


	47. The Old Argument

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: Well. What can I really say here?**
> 
> **Your patience, your love, your understanding and your support have meant more to me in the last few months than I could ever put into words. Know that every word you've said has been stored away in a very much reserved place in my heart that I keep for each and every one of you and I can only hope that you never lost faith - I would never give up on this fanfiction and, more to the point (so very much more) I could never, ever give up on any of you.**
> 
> **To that end, here is the long-awaited 47th chapter. I will admit that I need to get into the swing of things, the pace of it again - it isn't perfect, nor is it everything I would wish it to be, but it is something and it's the start of something. It's the start of rediscovery.**
> 
> **For me and for them.**
> 
> **I love you all. Comments, of any nature, are always adored - just as much as I adore you. x**

**Chapter Forty-Seven**

_John,_

_Good to hear back from you. It's certainly nice to hear that you haven't been down recently and that you've had plenty of distractions but, like you said, avoiding the underlying issue here won't get you anywhere. I'm glad to see that you know that. It's equally good to hear that whoever you're with advises you similarly. You should hold on to a friend who is willing to be so honest! Perhaps at some point you'd like to tell me more about them._

_In regards to finding somewhere to live next year I can keep an ear out for you, put out some feelers – let me know what sort of place you're looking for and I'll do my best to aid you in some way._

_As for your second year... I can completely understand where your fears are coming from. Depression is a very limiting illness and it can affect your academic standing – as you know from the year just gone – very easily. What I can do for you in regards to this is let your future tutors know what's going on; they won't be able to change what they expect of you, of course, but it will make them more aware of why you might be struggling should it come to that. They want to help you succeed, John – you'd do well to remember that. It's all too easy to forget that people want to help you in some way and to try to take it all upon your own shoulders; try not to let your head turn every situation against you and make yourself believe you're alone._

_Jim_

**\- X -**

“So,” Greg broke through the silence, clapping his hands together, “how much longer are you guys staying here for?”

Sherlock glanced up briefly from his phone, flickering his gaze rapidly to John's face; his best friend had been oddly quiet today and, despite his determined attempts to read beyond his fleeting smiles and assess what was going on, Sherlock had found himself frustratingly unaware of what was going on behind his distracted expression. It was irritating and concerning, two things that Sherlock was quickly coming to realise were commonplace in relation to how he felt for the smaller man.

His pale eyes flitted back to Greg. “We haven't discussed it yet. My mother certainly appears to believe we're going to be here for another few weeks yet. Started talking about going away for a long weekend.”

Greg's signature grin sparked to life upon his tanned face. “Sounds about right. Still, Mrs. H wants to meet John pretty soon to sort out signing contracts and whatnot, so either you're gonna have to take a train over to London sometime in the next week or you're going back earlier than you'd planned.”

“Did she say that to you?”

“More or less.” Greg shrugged. “She wants to meet the boy who we both can stand to be in a room with long enough to actually want him to live with us. Her words, not mine.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I'm sure.”

“She was particularly tickled by the idea of you having a best mate.”

Sherlock glanced at John again; he showed no signs of being involved in their conversation. Sherlock's brow wrinkled slightly, wanting to broach the subject of what was on his mind yet not knowing how to without either sounding like an arsehole or raising Greg's suspicions. “Am I to assume that she asked questions?”

“Course she did.” Greg leaned over across the conservatory table and picked up his can of Diet Coke. “Everything you could possibly think of. She doesn't quite understand why we need a third housemate or how he could possibly put up with you for long periods of time, but... yeah. She's pretty intrigued. Wants to meet him as soon as.”

Once again Sherlock found himself eyeing John, his mind ticking away as he wondered whether John was even aware of the topic of conversation; he looked, though it was a horrendous cliché, miles away, utterly distracted by whatever was playing on his mind and as far from conscious to the fact that he was a point of discussion as anyone could be. Though his initial (and endlessly irritating) instinct was to wonder if his best friend was having second thoughts, something that Sherlock was almost certain could be a possibility regardless of how much sentiment was exchanged between them, he had been told multiple times by John now that if there _were_ second thoughts on the table they would be brought up and discussed, not left to fester and develop. He had to have faith that this remained to be true and therefore that whatever _was_ on John’s mind was nothing to do with their situation.

Unfortunately that left a myriad of options that Sherlock found difficult to sift through whilst John was being so ridiculously reticent; it was an odd change of pace to be on the other side of the fence. Usually John would be the one to (unsuccessfully) attempt to read Sherlock’s thoughts, eventually reaching a stage where he would ask – no attempt to mask his irritation – what the genius was thinking, feeling, inquire as to what was going on behind the fluttering of closed eyelids and steepled fingers; Sherlock wasn’t used to being the one wanting to ask the question. It tended to only take ten seconds of observation at the most to accurately surmise where John Watson’s thoughts lay and another five to make a snarky comment – all he had at this moment in time were snarky comments, snarky comments without route or foundation and there was no point whatsoever in being snarky if he couldn’t back it up. That in itself was frustrating, particularly as he rather enjoyed John’s usual reactions and threats in response.

Now, of course, he had to decide what to do about it. He could, and probably should, just leave John alone to deal with whatever was so clearly bothering him – that would probably be the ‘decent’ thing to do, to let him divulge in his little world of no one else and wait patiently for him to emerge… but Sherlock was not a patient man. He was, in fact, the very _opposite_ of a patient man, one might even go as far as to call him _impatient_ , yet was that really such a terrible thing? Did it make him an assumedly awful person if he couldn’t stand to be kept on the outside of whatever was taking John’s attention away from him? After all, John didn’t have him in his life because he was endlessly sweet and pleasant and easy – or if he did then he was surely disappointed on a minute-by-minute basis – and would surely be expecting him to interfere and be as blunt, apathetic and logical as ever… so, would that make it acceptable, were he to demand an explanation? Not here, not in front of Greg, but soon?

Would it be rude to demand that Greg leave the room so that Sherlock could begin his interrogation?

So many questions. So much to decide upon.

It really was rather a lot of effort.

“Sherlock?”

Greg’s voice pulled him rudely from his musings, eyes flitting over to rest upon his housemate with all the friendliness of a wandering wasp. “What?”

“I was just saying to John that I have to give Mrs. H a date as soon as possible.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow twitched. “A date?”

Greg nodded, glancing from John’s face to his with a quick smile. “Uh, yeah. For her to meet John.”

“Ah.” Sherlock nodded slowly, fingers steepling underneath his chin as he threw his gaze back to John who was seemingly even more distracted than he was. “Well, that’s really up to John.”

At the sound of his name, John's face turned towards him. “Me? Why me?”

“Because you're the one who's moving in, the one she wants to meet. I would think that was fairly obvious.”

John's face settled into a half-hearted smile. “Yes, I guess you're right. I just need to figure some things out, timing and whatnot, have things I should probably do before I go gallivanting off to meet my new landlady... I'll let you know.”

Greg shifted on his chair slightly, looking between them awkwardly. “Don't want to be a prick about it -”

“That's a pity, you do it _so_ well...”

Greg continued as if Sherlock hadn't spoken, “ - but she kind of needs to meet you ASAP. Our new tenancy agreements start in a couple of weeks and she wants you to sign at the same time – simplicity and all that. Makes it easier for her, means that she doesn't have to sort out deposits and everything at different times.”

At least John seemed to be paying attention now. He nodded, if not a little hesitantly, at the time-frame. “All right, I suppose I don't really have much of a choice. Shall we say in a week, then? All head to London or wherever it is to sign up together?”

Sherlock moved his hands to rest them in his lap, eyes still trained heavily upon John's pale face. “A week should be fine. I'll need to speak to my mother and tell her that we won't be available for a long-weekend away anywhere, no doubt that will be an absolute  _joy_ to explain, but I'm sure once I tell her that John is moving in with us there'll be little to no fuss."

Greg, too, seemed to be in agreement. “Yeah, all right then. We can text and iron out details, but for now I'll just tell Mrs. Hudson that we'll probably be there -”

Sherlock instinctively tuned him out once more, instinctively assessing that the important part – the part in which he was involved – was over and instead turned his attention as subtly as he possibly could back to the man sitting to his right who looked, by all standards, as if he had the entire world upon his shoulders. Oh, what he wouldn't give to be inside of that head at that moment... and how much he _hated_ that he knew that human decency would win out on this one and he wouldn't do a single thing to press whatever was taking over John's attentions out into the open and into Sherlock's large, willing hands.

**\- X -**

“You’ve been very distant today.”

Sherlock glanced up from his laptop with a start, bewildered to find John leaning on the doorframe of his bedroom and watching him intently; it was somewhat disconcerting to realise that, if he hadn’t spoken, Sherlock probably wouldn’t have even realised he was there. “Oh. Well. As have you. I was merely responding appropriately to your own demeanour.”

John didn’t seem at all surprised by this, simply nodding in agreement and straightening up. “Yeah. Yeah, sorry about that.”

Eyes scanning John’s face for details, Sherlock leaned back in his chair and observed him for a moment, icy stare zeroing in on every minute detail – yes, he seemed genuinely sorry, though if Sherlock were to be fair he had absolutely nothing to apologise for. How often had he himself been utterly unreachable to the point of exuding from John an outburst of frustration or irritation? John was well within his rights to have a day of thoughtfulness if it was what he desired, and despite Sherlock’s inherent want to drag those thoughts out into the daylight so that he could fathom what was going in inside of his friend’s head he believed that he had made the right decision in leaving the man to his wonderings… Sherlock had, after all, found that silence was a key ingredient to pulling information from people – just look at the night of the ball, for instance. Had Sherlock not left John to think and obsess as he had known he would they may have never found the right moment to accept that Sherlock’s feelings were finally reciprocated and they certainly wouldn’t be where they were now – that is to say, with Sherlock fighting the oddest urge to stand up and frame his fingers around John’s face, to gaze intently into his eyes and to search those mossy-blue windows for a chance glimpse into the inner workings of the man he cared for on such a level as he had never known existed within him.

The whirlwind-level of sentiment which he held for the man who was currently staring at him in slight concern was still unsettling. He realised, a few moments too late, that he should have spoken.

“No matter, you have nothing to be sorry for.” _Be casual. Be calm. He may not want to talk about it yet._ “Was there something you needed?”

John allowed a small smile, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Huh. Really?”

Sherlock kept his face set in its usual impassive mask; he would not ask, he would not press, he would simply wait it out. He could do that. He could absolutely, one-hundred-percent do that.

“That’s all you’re going to ask me? If I need anything?”

Sherlock shrugged. “What were you expecting?”

The incredulity on John’s face was a beautiful picture to behold, if only because it was so easy to read. “I… well, I _was_ expecting a barrage of demands to tell me what I’d been so distracted by. After all,” he said lightly, shrugging with just as much casual attitude as Sherlock himself was currently displaying, “you’ve been fighting the urge to do it all day.”

Sherlock frowned. “I haven’t.”

“Yeah, you have. Come on, Sherlock, your observational ‘glances’ aren’t so much ‘glances’ as they are incredibly intense, invasive stares.” A grin twitched upon John’s face, seemingly genuine. “It’s hard not to notice your desperation when you’ve spent most of your time today watching me.”

Well. That was absurd. “I haven’t been _desperate_ , what a ridiculous thing to sa-”

“Whatever, then, but at least admit that you’ve been wondering. Desperation aside, you’ve been trying to ‘observe’ me from the moment I got up and it has to have been driving you mad not to be able to assess what I’ve been thinking.”

Sherlock span his chair around so that he was once again facing the laptop, not wanting John to see that he had indeed hit the nail directly on the head and how much it still unnerved Sherlock to be on the other end of someone’s observations. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, John. I’ve simply been looking at you, adoring you from afar and thinking to myself how gloriously lucky I am to be blessed with such a… a good-looking, debonair, charming -”

“Oh, god, stop that,” John groaned, leaving the doorway and walking into Sherlock’s bedroom and perching himself on the edge of Sherlock’s bed, “I don’t think I could stand it if you actually _meant_ all of that, let alone you saying it for the sake of a lie.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the screen, clicking away with his mouse as if he had ever so many important things to do, none of which involving the conversation at hand. “I would’ve thought you’d like that sort of thing. You’re a romantic, after all.”

He could practically feel the rolling of John’s eyes to his left. “Hardly.”

“Deny it all you like, but lingering in the depths of you is someone who longs to hear those words in a genuine setting. You’d like nothing more than for me to turn up on your doorstep with a single red rose before I gently serenade you with one of those awful ballads from the 90’s that are still somehow fawned upon and adored even today.”

John’s responding snort said it all.

Sherlock felt a small smile creeping onto his face and extinguished it before it got out of control; it wouldn’t do to show amusement at a time when he was determined to be serious. “Well, perhaps that’s a slight exaggeration. But I’m relatively certain that if I were to turn to you at this precise moment, gaze into your eyes and murmur to you a few choice words you’d most likely embarrass yourself with the strength of your reaction.”

John’s body audibly shifted on the bed. “You’d never make me believe it, Sherlock. You’ve never shown any hint of a romantic bone in your body.”

Slowly, so slowly that the room became silent but for the breaths of the two men seated within it, perhaps edged with the slight squeak of his chair, Sherlock turned until he was facing John. He allowed himself a moment of avoiding eye-contact, gathering his wits together and enforcing within his mind a gateway to which he would allow the words he would unleash to fall from his lips without resistance, before he finally met John’s apparently all-knowing gaze and began to speak:

“Y'know, John, I had no intention of coming to terms with my feelings when they first began to surface; that night when I took you back to my home after being injured was the first time I actually acknowledged, in my mind, that I had feelings for you beyond any realm of friendship and it was, to be absolutely truthful, the most terrifying moment of my entire life. At that point, at least.” He let his icy stare burn against John's softer gaze, not wanting the man opposing him to miss a single word. “Whilst you were drifting in and out of consciousness, murmuring to me words of utter nonsense on my sofa and bleeding over my floors, it began to take hold before I even had a chance to consider what was happening to me. I took your hand within my own and began to see to your injury, stubbornly attempting to simply take care of the wound and leave it at that, cleaning away the blood and perhaps putting in more effort than I would have with anyone else in order not to increase your pain with my ministrations... but generally just allowing myself to settle into a routine of ignorance whereupon the only thing that mattered was cleaning you up. I was a fool.”

His startling talented memory began to work overtime, bringing back to him every memory of that night, every sound that had escaped John's lips and every brush of his own fingertips light on John's skin.

“Perhaps I could have escaped it, simply attended your injury and left you alone to sleep, but then you did something remarkable that, before now, I haven't informed you of – it fell from your dry lips like a secret, like something that only you and I were supposed to hear... that is, my name. You just mumbled it once, my name, whether asking for me or half-dreaming of me or any other possibility you could lay before me but either way you had said it and it... reached out for me in the darkness and grasped a hold of my throat like a vice. I swear for that moment I lost all sense of reason and logic and instead was gripped by sentiment with such fervour that I felt as if I were drowning from it... because in your weakest moment, a moment where you barely knew who you were or where you were you _knew_ me. You spoke of me. You asked for me.” A small smile flitted across his face. “Choose whichever option you like, the fact remains that I was the one you called upon and I was the one you wanted at that moment. And I answered you – in reality and within myself. It sounds... utterly whimsical, doesn't it?” He bit his lower lip gently, the gateway desperately trying to swing closed, taking every effort within himself to keep it open so that he could speak for a little longer. “It makes me sound like a bumbling fool and I don't pretend otherwise... but I digress. I murmured your name back to you and my thumb, of its own accord, brushed over the delicate skin of your wrist and the... the feel of your pulse, the thrumming beneath my touch, it simply lifted me from that moment and took me into the very depths of my head and told me what I had been fighting for what I imagine had been a short yet significant amount of time. It told me, in a moment of clarity that I had not asked for, that you were disproportionately important. The... _most_ important. That if I were to do anything that night, anything at all, it would be to accept that and to live with the consequences.”

John was staring at him in such a way that it made him feel bare, vulnerable, completely naked to the elements and the atmosphere around him – oh, how far he would go to prove a point. How far out of his comfort zone he would step in order to prove John Watson so very, very wrong.

“When you awakened, John, after I had already overstepped my emotional and physical boundaries – I'm sure you can recall as you began to return to consciousness the caresses I bestowed upon you in my determination to sooth your reawakening, for they linger in my memory as bright as a flame – you looked up at me at the exact moment that I should have closed myself off, the one single moment in which I was at my most open -”

“You were looking at me like you... well. Like I belonged to you.”

A warm flush began to work its way up from the nape of Sherlock's neck to the tips of his ears. “Quite right. It was such an intense flare of emotion, this feeling, this  _righteousness_ in my belief that – at least at that moment – you were mine. I couldn't really process it at the time as I knew you were coming back to consciousness and we would soon have to communicate, and I couldn't risk speaking to you whilst allowing myself to become so very much compromised... but yes, John, at that moment I believed that you were – in part – mine. And I would have done anything at that very moment to ease the suffering you were going through, would have taken it on as my own and doubled its intensity over and over if it would have been enough. It's true that part of that was motivated by guilt, I did feel horribly guilty for having put you through such pains thanks to my own overwhelming stupidity, but the rest... the rest was entirely down to a final acceptance of what you were to me. What you  _are_ to me.”

John seemed utterly incapable of saying anything – well. Other than the most important thing, at least in Sherlock's eyes. “Sherlock...”

“Romance may not come to me as it does to others; it's an unwilling consequence of the feelings I have for you, an addition that I would quite happily strike out if entirely possible. But if you insist on informing me of what I feel and your information is inherently wrong, as it is now, you should be sure that I'll do everything in my power to prove you incorrect. I may not be a 'romantic' as you are, nor may it come as naturally for me as it does to others you could have chosen, but when I say that within me you inspire words I had never thought I would speak, feelings that I would have never imagined would belong to me in my entire lifetime, a lifetime I had more or less accepted as one that would be spent alone with no understanding or experience of... _love_... John, when I say that I have never loved, nor will I ever love anyone quite as much as I do you and that your love for me is a gift I will never truly feel I could possibly deserve for all of the things I have done in my life and things I most likely have yet to do... I mean it. Without a single doubt in my mind, I mean every word, every feeling, every moment.”

Finally, he quietened. He didn't move, keeping his eyes wholly fixated upon John as if there was not another thing in his bedroom that could possibly take his attention away from the man sitting opposite him – he allowed himself the comfort of clicking closed the gateway that had allowed such an outpour, settling it back into the recesses of his mind as he brought forward once again the usual billows of logic and alongside it the return of his desire to ask John what had kept him so very far from him that day... but this, he found, was suddenly easier to control. Whether it had been the waves of sentiment he had just allowed to curl from his tongue or the way that John was now looking at him as if seeing for the very first time a blanket of stars against the darkest of skies he was unsure, but it was a welcome change nonetheless. He felt as if he could, perhaps, be patient enough to let the information come naturally. Perhaps. For a few minutes, at least.

Sherlock watched, with all the observational skills of a hawk tracking its prey, as John slowly leaned back slightly on the bed and let his mouth drop open for a moment or two.

“That... was... amazing.”

Sherlock waited a few beats. “...you think so?”

John stared unabashedly at him, mouth still hanging open. “Of course it was. Extraordinary. It was... quite extraordinary.”

“In the very least you're the first to hear anything of the sort. Most likely the only.”

John shot him a very pointed, very specific look that Sherlock had never seen upon his face before. “Well. I should bloody hope so.”

“Indeed.”

With a hand that didn't look quite as steady as it perhaps should, John rubbed his palm roughly over his face as he looked away and at the floor. “Bloody hell. Can't say I was expecting that. I don't really know what to say.”

Sherlock leaned back into his chair, a smug smile beginning to play at his lips. “Not to worry, John, a verbal reaction isn't entirely necessary. I've already collated the information I needed. I've made my point.”

“Your point? What point was – oh. Oh, for f... for crying out loud, Sherlock, was that all just to prove me _wrong_?!”

“That was part of it, yes. Don't look so shocked,” he admonished, shaking his head, “you have only yourself to blame. You practically issued a challenge.”

John's face was a sight to behold, torn between genuine frustration and confusion. “And you let me sit here, absorbing everything you were saying and feeling like my bloody heart was – no, that's not fair, Sherlock, that's just not on -”

“I said it was _part_ of it, not the entirety.” Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he waited for John to meet his gaze once more, his long fingers drumming lightly against his leg. “I meant every word I said and I'm relatively certain that you know that. You're just making drama out of nothing.”

“You're one to talk,” John muttered, though not much of a mutter as Sherlock was able to hear him loud and clear without straining himself, “you could make a living out of creating drama if you put your mind to it.”

“And now you're elongating the argument so that you don't have to agree that I have, in fact, proved your assessment to be wrong. Just admit it, John,” the genius said levelly, folding his arms over his chest, “you wanted nothing more than to throw yourself at me whilst I was talking.”

John mirrored him, folding his own arms tightly and tightening his jaw. “Not true.”

Sherlock smirked. “Liar. Your pupils were enormous. Still are.”

“Oh, you and your bloody pupils.” John closed his eyes as if to hide the evidence, though naturally Sherlock took this as a victory. “I'm sure you could tell me that from across the space you could hear my racing heart, too, feel my body temperature rise – go on, I dare you. For all you know it's _fear -_ ”

Sherlock held himself completely unaccountable for his actions; just as John proclaiming him not to have a romantic bone in his body was like a challenge laid out on a plate, this reference to the fear/enjoyment argument was simply too tempting, impossible to ignore. He had stepped lithely from his chair within two seconds, found himself standing in front of John within four and, within six, had his hands placed firmly upon John's legs and was leaning down with his nose brushing like a whisper against John's as he watched, up close, John's eyes snap open and focus like a shot upon his own.

Within seconds he had taken note of John's racing heart, his enlarged pupils and, yes, the increased body heat emanating from the man's body.

“It was as true then as it is now,” Sherlock murmured, low tones like silk vibrating from his throat and out into the minuscule space between them, “and I dare _you_ to deny it.”

A spark lit behind John's eyes – a warning. A promise. His own returning murmur was exactly what Sherlock had been expecting. “ _Fear_ .”

Sherlock laughed – deep, throaty, quiet. Sensual. He barely recognised the sound, yet it had escaped him as naturally as his usual sharp, barbed wit – so many new discoveries, so much left to find. “My dear John, my dearest friend... you  _should_ fear me.” He leaned forward, letting his lips brush feather-light over John's, not caring in the slightest that he was slipping further and further out of his comfort zone and instead straying onto new and unexplored territory within his own body. When he spoke he moved the words against John's lips and forced them to become John's truth, John's acceptance, John's admission. “If nothing else, fear me for the enjoyment you're so clearly experiencing and -” he trailed his fingers gently over the material of John's jeans, first down to the knee and then slightly higher than they had started out, “the enjoyment which is yet to come.”

John's eyes widened.

His lips parted.

Sherlock waited.

“Sherlock?”

Yes, that was it. That was what he wanted to hear. Sherlock's fingertips played idly with the rough material covering John's skin.“Mm?”

“I...” John closed his eyes once again, breathing in Sherlock's every breath as if it were oxygen. “I've been thinking...”

Sherlock's lips pressed lightly against John's, a heated frisson akin to electricity sparking between them.

“I want you to meet my parents.”


	48. Absolutely Personal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: OH HEY, HERE, HAVE ANOTHER CHAPTER! ^_^ Love to you all, and thank you so much for all of the love and comments on the last one - they mean so damned much to me, they truly do. Comments are obsessed over and the commentators even more so!**

** Chapter Forty-Eight **

John watched warily as Sherlock seemed to check himself, eyes flashing with confusion before he snapped his spine straight and took a quick step back; the rapid cycling of his thoughts were almost visible, transforming from the man who had been almost unrecognisable in his proximity, the purr of his low voice as he made promises that John was almost certain were made purely in the heat of being _right_ , and back into the logical and considerably less emotional version that he was far more used to. It was a relief, in some ways, to have that distance put between them; though John made no effort to hide the fact that he was inherently drawn to Sherlock in a physical way (something that was still unfamiliar, though possibly even more tempting because of that) he was relatively sure that if Sherlock had not just been proven right, _twice_ , he would not have been quite as confident, quite as arrogant in a way that was frustratingly attractive as well as irritating and would therefore not have pushed the levels of intensity up to a new high.

_“If nothing else, fear the enjoyment you’re so clearly experiencing… and the enjoyment which is yet to come.”_

Those words did not belong to Sherlock. If John was willing to be overly critical, he would go as far as to say that it was entirely possible that Sherlock had created that tension in order to push John into saying what he’d been mulling over all day… because surely the genius knew that John, regardless of how he felt for Sherlock, was not ready for more than they had already experienced. Surely the lesser-experienced of the two was not prepared to offer himself up in such insinuating terms and gestures so soon after they had first begun this entirely new experience. Not when he’d been so cautious with kissing, so nervous, so inhibited. True, Sherlock had started to come around to a point where he wasn’t quite so embarrassed, taking significantly less time to reach out and place his hands lightly upon John’s waist or hips or arms, an act that tended to cascade heat through John until he could bear it no longer and had to pull away and deflect from the fact that he was millimetres too close to getting carried away, but he was almost certain that Sherlock was not ready for more than that.

Perhaps it should bother him more that Sherlock had most likely used such a device to drag the truth of John’s distance into the open, but he was distracted – as he had been the whole day. He watched Sherlock’s face closely, trying as hard as he possibly could to glean something from it so that he ascertain whether it would be a positive or negative reaction, but as usual Sherlock was stupidly difficult to read… god, would he ever get any better at reading his friend? Or would he spend the rest of their time together constantly wondering, all the while with Sherlock able to ‘observe’ John’s innermost thoughts without having to say a word?

Would that ever be any less frustrating?

It took thirty seconds to Sherlock to land on his feet within the newly-altered atmosphere. “You want me to meet your parents.” It was not a question, merely a statement. “This is what has been on your mind for the majority of today?”

John nodded, feeling a pity of unwelcome tension knotting like a ball in the pit of his stomach just at the possibility of having Sherlock come face-to-face with his family. “Yeah.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I see. What’s brought this on?”

“Well,” John began with a shrug, “I’m going to have to see them eventually. I can’t avoid them for the entirety of the summer break, no matter how welcoming your parents are or how much they – well, your mum – clearly wants me here.”

“She only wants you here because it keeps _me_ here.”

John allowed himself a moment to roll his eyes. “Thanks.”

Sherlock sighed, backing himself up and settling himself down into his desk chair once more, his body directed towards John but his eyes focused on the cream carpet at their feet. “Oh, well, all right - I’m sure he enjoys your company too but the fact is that if you weren’t here, neither would I be. She doesn’t want you to leave because she knows I’ll follow suit.”

“You say that, but the whole reason you’re here in the first place is because you wanted to be anywhere other than where I was.”

Sherlock’s quick glance was enough to reveal to John the complete idiocy of his point. “Which of course she doesn’t know, not to mention that our circumstances have changed somewhat since then.”

“Might be a little bit of an understatement there, Sherlock.”

John watched as the tiniest of smiles flickered its way to life on Sherlock’s cupids-bow. “Mm. Perhaps.”

“My point is, I probably _should_ see them and I can’t avoid it forever, and the fact is that I would feel… _better_ about it… if you were to come with me.” John looked away for a moment, pretending to take great interest in his fingernails. “If you want to.”

He could feel the familiar prickling sensation of Sherlock’s intent gaze on him, roving eyes taking in every avoidant part of him. “ _You_ want me to.”

John gave a small nod alongside a non-committal shrug.

“Then naturally I’ll accompany you.”

John allowed his eyes to flit up to meet Sherlock’s. “You’re sure?”

Sherlock seemed irritated by the question, his head jerking slightly back as his fingers twitched atop his thighs. “Of course I’m sure, John. What possible reason could I have for rejecting your request?”

Well. He’d have to be specific _some_ time, so it might as well be now. “It’s not as if it’s going to be… they’re not like your parents, Sherlock, and my upbringing wasn’t like yours. It’s not going to be as easy as it was for me to come into your home with your parents and instantly slip in like I’d always been here. They’re not -”

“You think I’m going to judge them?” Sherlock’s tone was steady, asking a question he already knew the answer to. “Judge your home, perhaps, the place you grew up in?”

Another helpless shrug. “If I can’t avoid judging them then how can you?”

It was a terrible thing to say. John’s parents were not perfect and, to be fair, he had never _expected_ them to be, but after being welcomed into the Holmes fold as easily as he had been and found himself faced with a couple who clearly had the sort of marriage that people could only dream of having he couldn’t help but see his own parents in a different light, see their flaws and their problems from the eyes of an outsider rather than the eyes of a loving son… and that complicated things. He knew without a doubt that the eternally-observant Sherlock would zero in on his over-compensating mother, a woman who had essentially raised her children alone for the last fifteen years after his father had slipped into a recurring cycle of alcoholism, see past her smiles and her warm demeanour and instead see a woman filled with bitterness and rage at her situation. John himself had only truly begun to notice it during his last years at school, moments where he would turn to look at her and catch in the briefest of moments the look of regret in her eyes as she stared at him before she turned it into a beaming smile and began nattering on about one thing or another to cover the fact that he had caught her – because she wasn’t a bad person. His mother was, like anybody else, flawed, only her flaws seemed to be born out of circumstance and her situation rather than natural development. He knew that she loved both him and Harry, no matter how much she and Harry tended to clash and argue and end up with them both crying and shouting until one of them was forced to leave; more to the point, he knew that she felt as if she had failed them both by not being able to be both a mother and a father to them.

Perhaps he could even go as far as to say that she felt the weight of failure for their father’s flaws as well as her own. After all, she blamed Neil Watson for Harry’s own drinking problem as well as her sexuality, but he was so inherently unfocused and distant from it all that she took all of that onto herself and felt double the disappointment, double the anger, double the regret. Which was absurd. None of it was either of their faults to begin with. Harry’s sexuality, for one, couldn’t be ‘blamed’ on anything as it wasn’t even a bad thing.

Just as John’s falling in love with Sherlock wasn’t a bad thing.

Not to him.

Not really.

“You should really share your thought-processes with me, John. You might find it helpful.”

The sound of Sherlock’s voice startled him out of his wonderings and brought him back to the moment at hand; John forced a smile, shaking his head. “I’m fine, sorry. I just want you to be prepared for what you’re walking into.”

Sherlock slowly brought his fingers together, steepling them as he observed John’s attempt to be casual. “May I… be frank?”

A wry smile slipped onto John’s taut face. “Since when do you ask?”

“Quite.” Sherlock allowed the point, though did not explain his willing reticence. “It just appears to me that perhaps it would be less of an emotional uproar for you if you were to go alone rather than be accompanied by me – or anyone else, for that matter, though mostly me.” John separated his lips to interrupt but was not given a chance; Sherlock raised a finger in the air and briefly shook his head. “No, John, allow me to finish. I genuinely believe that the idea of me coming with you is causing you more stress and undue concern than if you were to visit your family by yourself. You’ve clearly spent most of the day worrying over this issue to such an extent that now you can think of nothing else, and I will allow you the acquiescence of saying that you’re probably right to have been so uncertain. I cannot simply turn off my gift for observation and you’re quite right when you assume that I will – no matter how hard I might try – form one judgement or another about both your family and the life in which you experienced before you came to university. What you’re concerned about, of course, is that the judgement that I’ll make is one that will be unavoidably insulting and that I will – as I tend to do – make that judgement perfectly clear to both you and your family.”

John could only nod, unable to find the effort within him to lie for the sake of Sherlock’s feelings.

“Well then. Although I could deny such a thing and attempt in some ridiculous way to convince you that I’ll keep any and all thoughts to myself and would more likely come to a logical and undoubtedly _correct_ conclusion regarding your family rather than a painfully personal one, I know you well enough to understand that you would be limited in your ability to move past your fears and would most likely spend the entire time we were there questioning to yourself what I was thinking… and that would probably come out in such a way that you would be constantly either be defending your family or – and this is almost certainly what would be the result from all of this – you would turn against your family in the light of what you assume me to be thinking and it would turn into the most unpleasant of experiences.”

John was well aware that everything Sherlock was saying made sense, yet the words he had given John seemed to litter his mind in a fragmented, confusing way which just made his head hurt and wish he had never brought it up in the first place. “Right.”

“I don’t want that,” Sherlock stipulated, his voice gentling as he undoubtedly saw the confusion etched upon John’s tight expression, “and I certainly don’t want to cause you emotional turmoil simply from my presence. That is the last thing I could ever want, if you can believe that. Despite… everything.”

Ah yes, the elusive ‘everything’, the unnamed period of time in which they weren’t speaking… but the reference to it was somewhat surprising. Was Sherlock still feeling guilt over everything that had happened before now? It would certainly seem that way, if he was bringing it up in relation to emotional turmoil – John was unsure how to approach it, knowing as he did that Sherlock preferred not to speak of it and not wanting really to bring up the specifics himself, but would it really be fair to leave his best friend to mull around in guilt for the entirety of their knowing each other? As far as John was concerned that was far behind them now, unimportant in the face of what had been born from it.

Yeah. He had to say something. “Sherlock, I wish you’d just let that go. It’s over, it’s fixed, everything is fine.”

The glance that was shot his way was cutting; he had a feeling, though, that it was Sherlock’s own self-loathing that he was experiencing through this icy gaze rather than something directed towards him. “It’s unimportant. I was simply relating it to the case being discussed. I wouldn’t want you to -”

“Seriously though,” John pressed, grateful for the subject change, something he could handle easily in comparison to the awkwardness of discussing his impending trip home, “all of the things you think you did wrong during that point just don’t matter anymore. They got us to where we are now, and I don’t know about you but I’m rather enjoying the consequences.”

“Stop trying to deflect from the real issue.”

“I’m not,” John lied as smoothly as he could, which wasn’t all too smooth at all, “I just want you to be able to let it go.”

Sherlock’s unerringly pointed gaze narrowed, fingertips pressing hard against each other. “Why?”

The bluntness of his response momentarily shifted John’s resolve. “I… well, you -”

“You need to understand, John, that it is not as easy as simply ‘getting rid’ of the guilt that I feel in regards to how I treated you in the short space of time between you finding out my growing feelings for you and you coming to terms with yours. Though of course something positive was created from the drama I allowed to take form I am still very much aware that I reacted like a petulant child who was forbidden from having a toy he so ardently wanted.”

“You’re comparing me to a toy?”

Sherlock let out the mother of all sighs from between pursed lips. “Don’t be pedantic, John. My point is that no matter what came from the situation I am well aware that most likely you found _yourself_ forced into a state of guilt for assuming that it was entirely your fault that I had overreacted in such a ridiculous fashion and therefore were put under unnecessary duress which _is_ , no matter what way you choose to view it, my fault. I cannot simply let that go.”

Suddenly John wished he’d just stuck to the matter at hand. Goddamned hindsight. “All right. All right, I’ll leave it alone.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“So.” John rubbed his palms over his jeans, surprised to find his hands were clammy. “You want me to go alone.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Sherlock argued, thrusting himself to his feet and pacing to the other side of the room, clearly aggravated, “I’m not at all saying that I _want_ you to go alone, I merely think it would be more beneficial for youemotionally were you to partake on this journey without the pressure of having me there to constantly and consistently worry about. It’s not personal -”

“It’s _absolutely_ personal, Sherlock.”

Sherlock threw his hands up into the air. “Fine, fine, yes, it is personal! It’s personal in that I don’t want you to have to go through any more discomfort than you already will! It has absolutely nothing to do with your ridiculous notion that I don’t want to go with you out of desire to avoid meeting your parents and everything to do with attempting to consider your feelings in all of this.” The fervour in his voice, his changeable gaze was mesmerising; John rarely saw him so passionate, so determined, so equally confused in his own want to accommodate John. It was endearing and captivating all at once. “If you really think that I want to let you go miles away and spend days, _weeks_ in a different part of the country to me whilst I am left here to deal with my mother constantly moaning about how she misses you, all the while battling my own feelings of having you gone, you are absolutely mistaken. You are completely and utterly wrong and quite frankly, John, I’m disappointed at your -”

John pushed himself off of the bed and over to the nineteen-year-old within seconds, batting his hands out of the way and arching himself up to Sherlock’s lips, silencing him with a hard, stubborn kiss that seemed all too contradictory in the way it managed to both suppress the high levels of tension and equally increase them all at once; his fingers found fistfuls of smooth material, yanking the boy closer as he fought the surge of love that welled up within his chest at the mere insinuation that Sherlock would miss him whilst he was away.

Because of course he would go on his own. Of course Sherlock would not accompany him. Of course Sherlock was right.

Sherlock took a few moments to respond to the kiss, still irritated as he was at John’s lack of comprehension, but slowly John found himself rewarded with the light pressure of large palms on his hips and fluttering fingers wrapping themselves gently to hold them, the softening of frustrated lips into a moue that fit warmly over his own. He gentled the kiss, pulling away for a moment.

“Thank you.”

Sherlock cleared his throat, clearly knocked off course from his previous ranting. “For what?”

John flitted his eyes up to meet the burning pale gaze of the man standing so tall above him. “For telling me you’ll miss me.”

“I didn’t _say-_ ”

“Yes, you did,” John insisted quietly, moving his hands to rest upon Sherlock’s chest, “and that means a lot to me. Just so you know.”

A rumble came out of Sherlock’s throat, something that sounded a little like ‘sentiment’. John allowed a smile.

“Yes, well, I’m allowed to be sentimental with you. And it won’t happen often, so just enjoy it whilst it lasts.”

Sherlock’s left thumb idly stroked the hip below it, sighing. “Fine. I’m enjoying it. Thank you for your sentiment. It is most glorious, affirming and touches me deeply.”

John raised an eyebrow, stepping back and out of Sherlock’s grasp. “If you’re going to be sarcastic about it I may as well just g-”

“You’re right, though.” The interruption sounded strained, as if Sherlock was struggling to say the words he was so often hearing himself. His hands twitched awkwardly at his sides, looking awfully like a lost child trying to find direction in a new place. “I will.”

The quiet that erupted in the small space between them was full to the point of bursting; the two of them stared at each other, John trying to find the right words to respond and Sherlock wishing he could take the ones he had offered back.

“I know.”

It wasn’t quite the ‘me too’ that John had been going for, but he hoped that Sherlock would know what he had meant… and if anyone could hazard a guess and be spot-on, it would be him. “Do you know how long you intend to stay there?”

John lifted open palms into the air, his feet moving of their own accord as he backed his way to the bed and sat back down; Sherlock followed suit, choosing to ignore the chair he had previously been sitting on and instead settled down carefully a few inches from John. “I don’t know. A few days? Definitely not weeks, don’t think I could stand staying there weeks – I’ve adjusted too easily to the freedom of living on my own!”

“Not that you’ll be alone next term,” Sherlock reminded him, hands gathering in his lap, “you’ll barely have a moment to yourself living with Greg.”

“He’s not the one I’m worried about…”

Sherlock let a small smile slip onto his lips. “Mm. You needn’t worry about getting your privacy. I’m still likely to have days when I barely say a word.”

“Good,” John returned sincerely, “I don’t want things to change just because our… _situation_ has changed. I want you, as you are, not some clingy idiot who thinks I want to be in his company every minute of every day.”

Sherlock looked affronted at even the idea of becoming something he so clearly wasn’t. “I sincerely hope that’s not a hint, John, because if you think that I would -”

“No, no, that’s what I meant, I know that’s not who you are. And that I like it that way.”

“I should hope so, considering the path you’ve chosen.”

“Believe me, Sherlock,” John’s voice was quiet but firm, “I know exactly what I’m getting with you.”

Sherlock’s pale, intense verdigris gaze settled heavily upon John’s face. “Oh, yes? And what is that, exactly?”

John’s hand skated across the distance, eyes focused completely on Sherlock’s as he reached up and dragged warm fingertips over the curve of Sherlock’s throat. “Chaos.”

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed. John felt the pulse of his heart quicken beneath his touch.

“Mm.”

John brushed a thumb over the edge of Sherlock’s jaw. “Disarray.”

The hands that had been so steady in Sherlock’s lap curled into gentle fists. “Yes.”

John was leaning in now. “Every type of frustration you could possibly define.”

“Absolutely.” Sherlock’s Adam’s apple quivered as he swallowed.

“And when I leave tomorrow -” the sound of Sherlock’s grunt of disappointment rolled around the whorl of John’s ear, replaced quickly by a hum of contentment as John brushed his lips ever so gently against the cupids bow that so mercilessly tempted him every moment of every day, “- I want you to know that all of those things and all of the other little bits and pieces that make up who you are -” he trailed his kisses down, across Sherlock’s jaw and to the tender stretch of skin just below the genius’s ear, “- will be driving me insane from the emptiness of my bedroom.”

A shuddering breath whispered its way out of Sherlock’s parted lips. “John -”

“No more talking,” John commanded in a murmur, moving back to press his lips against Sherlock’s as if to possess every word he could possibly say. “Just shut up and kiss me.”


	49. Google Strikes Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: Hello, beautiful people. Won't go into detail but I'm sure you can imagine why it's been a while since I've updated; hopefully this is the start to another spell of updates! Just a little one to see you through to the next one - think of it as a deposit on the rest of the fic. :]**
> 
> **Love you all very much. Never forgotten you, y'know, even if I'm non-existent for a while. <3 **
> 
> **As always, reviews make my day/week/month/year/lifetime and each one means the world to me. As do you!**

**Chapter Forty-Nine**

_ **William:** _ _ Did you find your seat well enough? _

_Sherlock, you were watching me through the window five minutes ago. You SAW me sit down._

_ **William:** _ _ You could've sat down on any seat. How am I to know if it was the correct one or not? _

_It wouldn't make any difference either way, this train is practically deserted. I'm probably the only one who bothered to reserve a seat at all. Saying that, YOU were the one to reserve it for me, I wouldn't have bothered personally._

_ **William:** _ _ Precisely, I went to the trouble of reserving you a window seat and therefore you should be courteous enough to make use of it. And you have yet to answer my question. _

_Yes, Sherlock, I'm sitting in the right seat, the seat you reserved, the seat which – for the next two hours – belongs to nobody but myself. Happy?_

_ **William:** _ _ 'Happy' is a little strong, John, but I'd go as far as to say that I'm somewhat satisfied. _

_So do you plan on texting me inane questions for the rest of my journey or are you going to let me get a little sleep before I arrive back in Bromley?_

_ **William:** _ _ If it bothers you quite so much I will of course leave you be for the remainder of your journey. I'd imagine you're exhausted. _

_What makes you imagine that?_

_ **William:** _ _ I saw the light from the lamp coming through under your door when I went to the kitchen for a glass of water early this morning. I assumed you were struggling to sleep what with the impending journey today. _

_Very astute. You should be a private detective._

_ **William:** _ _ Just as I thought. Your crankiness belies your irritability which, I believe, is good enough proof that you're tired. And don't sigh at me so loudly, John, I can hear you from here. _

_Ha. You know me far too well._

_ **William:** _ _ Would you prefer for me to leave you to get some rest? _

_I'm not sure yet. I wish I'd thought to bring my iPod with me, would make this journey a lot less dull._

_ **William:** _ _ Not to worry, I slipped mine into your jacket pocket this morning. _

_You did? That's... thoughtful._

_ **William:** _ _ One of the things that we can say we have in common is our lack of interest in mindless chitchat; I merely thought it would come in use to you should you find yourself in the awkward situation of being invited to indulge in menial conversation. _

_You know that's still thoughtful though, right? I mean, you can dress it up how you like, but..._

_ **William:** _ _ If you're trying to antagonise me it isn't going to work. I, unlike you, slept very deeply last night and am in a perfectly amicable state of mood. _

_So that's why you needed a glass of water in the middle of the night? Because you were sleeping soooo deeply? Also, you and 'amicable' don't exactly work well together. Just saying._

_ **William:** _ _ I had a dry throat. _

_Sure. More like you were waiting for me to come into your bedroom._

_ **William:** _ _ My room was very warm last night, John, I had a tickle. In the back of my throat. _

_Yeah, absolutely, believe you 100 percent._

_ **William:** _ _ Stop it. _

_Stop what?_

_ **William:** _ _ Stop being facetious. _

_Who says I'm being facetious? Maybe I genuinely believe you._

_ **William:** _ _ Or perhaps you're just being an irritating little shit. _

_SHERLOCK! I'm horrified at your use of language!_

_ **William:** _ _ But you're grinning like an absolute fool as a consequence, correct? _

_That's neither here nor there._

_ **William:** _ _ I think that your response effectively proves me right and therefore I win this argument. Tell me, how does it feel to lose all of the time to such a superior mind? _

_I don't know, I haven't really argued with Greg for a while..._

_ **William:** _ _ That's really more of an insult to yourself than to me, John. You should get some sleep so as to properly recharge and allow yourself the chance to come back to me with some more impressive responses. _

_Shut up. I'm getting your iPod out now._

_ **William:** _ _ Good. I've already put one or two playlists together for your entertainment. _

_Oh god. Do you even own any decent music?_

_ **William:** _ _ I'm offended. _

_It's all bloody classical!_

_ **William:** _ _ Not all. There are a few tracks on there that should appeal to your rather appalling tastes. _

_Jesus Christ, Sherlock, nineties pop doesn't count as good music! What the hell is this, Steps? Spice Girls?!_

_ **William:** _ _ Don't tell me you don't 'really, really, really want to zig-a-zig ah'? _

_NO._

_ **William:** _ _ Don't lose control, John. I hear it can become quite a 'Tragedy'. _

_I'm cringing. I'm legitimately cringing._

_ **William:** _ _ And I am thoroughly amused. _

_I bet you are, I bet you're having a right old chuckle at this._

_ **William:** _ _ It's so rare that I get to indulge in such idiotic pranks. It's really quite satisfying. _

_Is there anything on there AT ALL that I would enjoy?!_

_ **William:** _ _ If you scroll through the first playlist in its entirety I'm sure that you'll find something that you'd like. _

_Bryan Adams? The Hansons?! MADONNA?!?!_

_ **William:** _ _ I don't know why you're so upset. They were 'all the rage' once upon a time. _

_Did you just look up a list on the internet? Seriously, B*witched?!_

_ **William:** _ _ I used Google, especially for you. Aren't you grateful? _

_Sherlock, I cannot sit here and listen to this playlist. This is purgatory._

_ **William:** _ _ But it was thoughtful a few minutes ago, what's so different from then and now? _

_MAMBO NUMBER FIVE_

_ **William:** _ _ Oh, well, that is a terrible song. Awfully catchy in the worst possible way. _

_Oh god, I remember all of the lyrics. This is hell._

_ **William:** _ _ That's it, John, lose yourself in nostalgia. Plenty to distract you on your journey. _

_There's a special level of hell for people like you, William Holmes._

_ **William:** _ _ There are a few on that playlist that I personally selected without referring to Google, you know. _

_I can't listen to it all. I can't put myself through that. Just tell me which ones and I'll listen to those._

_ **William:** _ _ That's not how it works, John. I went through the effort of searching for these songs, purchasing them and then putting them onto my iPod just for you. You'll listen to every single one and only then will I tell you which ones I chose. _

_This is going to be the longest two hours of my life. Is the second playlist as bad?_

_ **William:** _ _ I'd like to request that you don't listen to that particular playlist until your first day at home is over. Perhaps when you're recuperating in your room from all of the... excitement. _

_If it's easy-listening, Sherlock, I will come back to Goring just to snap your iPod in half in front of you._

_ **William:** _ _ You'd find that I wouldn't issue one word of complaint were that to happen. _

_God, you have too much money. You do realise that iPod's are considered expensive to most people?_

_ **William:** _ _ Yes. I'm aware. _

_If you want me to just break all of your gadgets, Sherlock, just ask. I'd be thrilled to do it._

_ **William:** _ _ That won't be necessary. _

_What's wrong? You've gone quiet._

_ **William:** _ _ The fact that we're still exchanging words is contradictory to that statement. _

_Seriously, what's up?_

_ **William:** _ _ Nothing. _

_Fine, don't tell me. I'll just keep listening to George Michael and let you have your little sulk for whatever unknown reason you're having it._

_ **William:** _ _ Very well. _

_Oh. Wait a minute._

_ **William:** _ _ I'm on tenterhooks. _

_Are you being weird because you were actually being a bit nice to me just now?_

_ **William:** _ _ What, exactly, are you referring to? _

_When I said about coming back to Goring to break your iPod, you said you wouldn't complain._

_ **William:** _ _ And? _

_Were you trying to say that you wish I'd come back?_

_ **William:** _ _ I wasn't trying to say anything. I simply said what I said. _

_That's really quite endearing, Sherlock._

_ **William:** _ _ Ugh, you and that word. _

_Seriously, it's... can't believe I'm going to use this in conjunction to you, but it's quite sweet._

_ **William:** _ _ I'm going to stop texting you if you insist on embarrassing me. _

_I'm not trying to embarrass you. I'd come back if I could._

_ **William:** _ _ I'm not asking you to. _

_I know._

_ **William:** _ _ Well then. This conversation is unnecessary. _

_You make it so hard to be nice to you sometimes, y'know._

_ **William:** _ _ Yes, I do know. I'm well aware that I'm... difficult. _

_Especially as you were the one to be sentimental in the first place._

_ **William:** _ _ Can we please change the subject? _

_Why?_

_ **William:** _ _ Because now I feel very uncomfortable and I would rather not have this discussion over text. _

_What discussion?! You said something nice, I'm responding and now you're acting like you never said anything nice in the first place._

_ **William:** _ _ Precisely. The moment has passed. _

_Well, what if it hasn't for me?_

_ **William:** _ _ Then you'll find yourself on the end of a very one-sided conversation. _

_Fine. Moment over._

_ **William:** _ _ Thank you. _

_I'm going to try and get some sleep now. I'll text you once I arrive._

_ **William:** _ _ Fine. _

* * *

 

John threw his phone down on the seat beside him, bringing his hands up to rake his fingers through his unbrushed hair; god, the man was impossible sometimes. They'd gone from a funny, lighthearted mock-argument about music to having one man completely clueless and the other shutting down – apparently a running theme with the two of them. Maybe if John hadn't been so oblivious to Sherlock's attempt to express his feelings before it wouldn't have disintegrated quite as quickly as it did – again, a running theme – but then again Sherlock maintained his insistence that he wasn't going to be continuously sentimental. Over the past few days he had constantly surprised John with how willingly he seemed to open up to his own emotions, but perhaps Sherlock was simply still coping with the overwhelming reality of their situation. God knows John was still trying to sift through it all in his head. Add that to the odd rumbling of depression in the back of his head and the intense pressure of where he was currently headed... well, there wasn't much room to be observant. So perhaps Sherlock was the one who needed to be a little more forgiving.

Turning to look out of the window at the fields rushing by, he felt the now-familiar stab of apprehension at what he was headed towards. He knew, without a doubt, that he and Sherlock had made the right decision not to have his best friend accompany him to his parent's house but over the past few weeks he'd found himself far more comfortable in the company of the Holmes family than he had in the longest time; it helped that it had been a whirlwind, that much was true, but the fact that he had felt more at home at that cottage in Goring than he ever had done in his own hometown... well, now it just felt wrong to be so far from it, far from that growing 'normality'. Equally, of course, he missed university. He missed Well Place, he missed the domesticity of spending the evenings cooking or lazing about with takeaway, he missed waking up to a cup of tea on the coffee table next to him and Sherlock sitting in his armchair doing god knows what on his laptop.

Things, of course, would change during the next academic year. No longer would he wake up to the cup of tea; instead he would wake up in an actual bed, a bedroom within the same house as both Sherlock and Greg, a glorified cupboard if their descriptions were accurate. He could do whatever he wanted with the room too, none of the limitations of on-campus accommodation; not that there would be much space to play with. Greg had already hinted that he didn't have anywhere to put his bicycle and John had a horrible suspicion he'd have to live with it sitting in his bedroom for the whole year, but maybe he'd be able to convince Greg to be reasonable and to put it out in the garden. Speaking of which, it made absolutely no sense to him whatsoever that it hadn't been in the garden to begin with. Yes. Yes, that was what was going to happen. Bikes belonged outside and that was how it was going to go down.

…

Why the hell was he giving so much thought to this? Ah, right. Distracting himself from the inevitable.

He resumed his mindless staring out of the window and thought of what was to come.

 


	50. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: Here you are, beautiful people - another chapter for you. Always odd to write a chapter in which Sherlock isn't present but it was a delightfully easy writing-process and I hope it fills in a few gaps!**
> 
> **Thank you ever so much to everybody who has commented so far; I'm trying to get back into the swing of things on here, and one of the things I like to do is respond to everybody who comments. If you take the time and the effort to say something to me about what I've written, I sure as hell want to do the same for you! ^_^ Y'all have no idea how much your feedback and sentiment means to me, it really does make my damned day to get those e-mail notifications.**
> 
> **Love to all and sundry; reviews are adored and reviewers sent roses and sparkly things by carrier-pigeon.**

**Chapter Fifty**

The house looked no different to how it had just a few months ago. The white paint on the outside of the 1930's semi-detached home was still peeling, looking far better from across the road than up-close and personal; the window frame – supposedly painted to look mahogany – was chipped, though clearly Sharon Watson had attempted to cover this by lining the frame with a smattering of pansies of arraying colours. John supposed that, if you weren't already aware of the external flaws, they actually weren't so awful and were easily distracted from by the flowers. It was a speciality of his mother's, using distraction-tactics to avoid dealing with a bigger issue; it felt a little harsh to make such a conclusion but the fact was that for a very long time it had actually worked. John knew that his childhood had been a complicated one, what with his father being a full-time mechanic, a part-time alcoholic and generally a rare presence within their home, but Sharon had plundered on with filling her children's days with activities and distractions to the point of running herself to a state of exhaustion. By age ten he had seen his mother break down in private more than five times and already had a lingering sense that her ever-cheerful attitude with them was nothing more than a practised facade.

By the time he had turned eleven and started at secondary school he was already taking it upon himself to use the exact same mechanism to keep her from derailing. Where his friends would go to after-school activities – as well as Harry keeping herself out of the house as much as possible – John would rush home to tell his mother all about his day, helping her cook dinner and do housework and coming up with all sorts of questions and stories in order to give her the opportunity to take a break from the whirlwind of thoughts which most likely plagued her through the day. He would walk through the off-white front door and offer her the most sincere smile he possibly could, trying to ignore the puffiness of her eyes as he offered her a brief kiss on the cheek and hung his coat on the wooden hooks within the porch, already regaling her with details of every class he had participated in and the various shenanigans his friends had got up to that day. She would smile in response, nodding and making all of the right noises, the two of them working in tandem to ensure that neither of them had to see the half-empty bottle of gin sitting by his father's arm-chair and the pile of brown envelopes stacked on the microwave from monder-lenders demanding repayment.

They were a team. No matter how unhealthy it was to use the tactics that they were it made them closer, gave them a bond which was lacking between any of the other members of the Watson family. By the time age sixteen rolled around, Harry already showing signs of rebelliousness as she stumbled in through the front door at 11pm and rushing up the stairs two-at-a-time to brush her teeth and hide the smell of cheap store-brand alcohol, Sharon and John had perfected distraction to an art and – within their continuous cycle of pretending that nothing was amiss – had come to an unspoken agreement that the reality of their situation was never to be discussed.

For the first time it made sense to him, standing on the doorstep with faintly sweating palms and a twisted sense of nostalgia swimming within his head... the reason he had found it so hard to see exactly what was in front of him in regards to Sherlock's feelings was simply because he had always been avoidant. It was an odd realisation, the dawning realisation that he tended to move on from things before they'd ever even been dealt with; it threw up a few warning sirens within his head, alerting him to the possibility of this having a negative impact on not only his new situation with Sherlock but also on his life as an adult in general. His mother, in her avoidance, had let a problem stew and develop and become something life-alteringly awful to the point where the only way that she  _could_  cope was to simply ignore the fact that there was a problem at all. John knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he did not want to end up the same way.

And, so. Here he was, at the place where avoiding an issue was the only way to go.

Thank goodness Sherlock  _wasn't_  here.

Speaking of which – he pulled out his phone and began to quickly type a message, barely looking at the screen as he completed and sent it.

_I arrived safely. About to knock on the door._

As he lifted his hand to use the knocker – it somehow felt more appropriate than using his key – the door flew open, the beaming face of his mother meeting his own slightly hesitant smile as she bustled out wearing an apron and holding a feather-duster, brown hair perfectly tied back without a single strand out of place.

"John!" She briefly hugged him, her arms light, nowhere near gripping him with the same ferocity as a certain maternal figure of the Holmes household – then again, the Watson's (compared to the Holmes family, with the exception of both Sherlock and Mycroft) weren't exactly a touchy-feely family. As a result John himself had always been rather proprietary when exuding affection of any kind, even with girlfriends only tending to touch them when they were kissing or engaging in a sexual act; perhaps from time to time he would kiss his mother on the cheek or rest his hand upon her arm for a moment, but that tended to be in extreme circumstances and if he felt that words would not do what he was trying to express any justice. To this end he had found it incredibly difficult to adjust to Wanda at first – her hugs, her casual squeezing of his shoulder as she passed by, the first time she had swooped down upon him to brush something out of his hair. Eventually it had become less uncomfortable, less surprising; he had learned to stop flinching, instead allowing it and letting the moment pass without feeling as if someone had invaded his personal space without his permission. He understood that she was simply somehow treating him as a member of her family, a surrogate son – he should be honoured by the affection, not offended.

And then there was Sherlock. But that was a whole different ballgame, in so many bloody ways.

He was brought back to the moment by her pulling away, the big smile still pasted upon on her face; he knew her too well, her tics, saw things that others wouldn't see - he saw the signs, the slight tremor, the effort it took to give him such a welcome. He felt the familiar ball of iron start to form in the pit of his stomach, the pressure that came with keeping up with her own obscenely convincing show of normality. It felt so unnatural after months away, felt as if he were forcing himself into a skin that no longer belonged to him... and all within the first few minutes of his visit.

The days would drag by.

"Hi Mum," he offered with as much warmth as he could, reaching out and patting her forearm, "I can see you weren't expecting me this early."

She glanced down at the feather duster in her hand, a laugh leaving her lips as she backed out of the way and motioned for him to come inside. Instantly the familiar scent of lemon kitchen-cleaner and Shake n' Vac washed over him, nostalgia encompassing him like a tent. "Yes, wasn't quite expecting you 'til a bit later. Never mind, you can help me if you like." Another short staccato of laughter. "Only joking, love, you get yourself settled. Want a cuppa? How was your journey?"

"I can help if you like," he insisted, placing his suitcase down just inside of the porch and shucking off his trainers, wandering into the living room and finding himself utterly unsurprised to see it looked exactly as it had when he'd left, only much cleaner. "But a cuppa would be great, I'm parched." He settled himself down into the beige two-seater sofa by the window, plumping the cushions behind him and letting his head fall back onto the soft material. "Journey was fine, no delays. Managed to catch a few winks too."

He watched through the archway of the door which opened up to the kitchen as his mother bustled around the cluttered space, opening cupboards and throwing teabags and sugar into two cups like a perfectly choreographed dance; the contrast to watching Wanda Holmes do the exact same thing was almost startling. Wanda would no doubt be flapping her hands as she tried to catch up to her own train of thought, trying to remember who she had already put sugar in for and who she'd forgotten, little murmurs of 'now then' and 'let's see' as she made her way around the kitchen as if it were a foreign space and hadn't been living there for over ten years; though Wanda was graceful in her own way, his own mother was so precise, so perfect in every movement that you'd think she was working on autopilot, trained professionally in the art of making a cup of tea. His eyes travelled over the form of her as she moved about, her perfectly-ironed jeans and crisp blouse simply highlighting the equally flawless make-up and hair – had it not been for the years of difficulty having been etched upon her once-youthful face he would have thought her to be ten years younger, at a distance easily fooling him into seeing the mother he had grown up with as a teenager.

He had forgotten that about her. Always striving for personal perfection, at least on the outside. No better way to cover up your struggles and flaws than by offering to the world a seemingly immaculate version of yourself, and Sharon was still attempting to cover up not only her own flaws but the flaws of her family in tow. Alcoholic husband? Make sure your hair is perfectly clipped back, not a hair astray. Lesbian daughter? Iron that blouse until it looks as if it never had a crease upon it in its life. Son studying away from home with barely any contact in recent months? Smile until you forget how to frown.

John's fingers gripped the edges of the sofa roughly.

"Here you are," she sang, walking with her head held high into the living room and handing him a steaming cup of tea, "it's a new brand from that new posh supermarket that opened last month. A nice treat for your homecoming!"

He took it with a nod of appreciation, holding it with the tips of his fingers so as not to burn himself. "Brilliant. Thanks, Mum. So -" he braced himself, " - how have you been?"

She blinked too quickly as she perched on the edge of the three-seater along the wall. "Well, you know. Nothing really changes around here! Harriet called yesterday for the first time in about a month, says that she's thinking of coming to visit. That will be... nice."

Oh, god. "Yeah, great. I mean, she doesn't have to come here, I can always go and visit her and Ka-" He cut himself off mid-sentence, realising the very worst thing he could do was bring up Harry's girlfriend barely ten minutes into his visit. "I could visit her in London, she doesn't have to travel all the way here. Public transport's a nightmare."

Sharon pursed her lips together slightly, a tight smile forming which looked almost uncomfortable. "Well. She'd like to visit you here. Maybe I can make something nice for dinner."

"Ooh, tell you what I fancy, Mum – what about shepherds pie? Nobody makes a shepherds pie like you." Distraction, distraction, distraction. "I was telling my friend about it the other day, was practically salivating just thinking about it."

The tight smile softened. The knot in his stomach lessened slightly. "It  _has_  been a while since I've made one... it's not as if anyone else is ever really around to eat it!" The knot came back. "Usually it's a ready meal for one... yes, all right, shepherds pie it is!" Her tone changed dramatically, brightening, the facade back in full force. "I'll even get some cream to make the mash, spoil you a bit."

"Ah, you don't need to do that -"

"Apparently I do, John, look how thin you've got!" Suddenly she was really looking at him, eyes scanning his body like a hawk. "Have you lost weight? How much? Are you not eating properly at university?"

John raised his hand in protest. "I'm fine, Mum, just don't always have time to -"

"Is it a money thing?" This was said in hushed tones; the subject of money had always been a taboo one. They had never been well-off, particularly since Neil Watson had lost his job three years ago. The house itself, though small, was still a bigger expense than was necessary when Harry had moved out so long ago and the third bedroom was completely unused for anything other than storage of things that they had no use for. If she'd just let go of her pride for a moment and downgrade they'd at least have a little more money to get by on, but Sharon was stubborn in that way. It had been her home for many years now and he knew that suggesting a move would be fighting a losing battle.

"No, I -"

"If we had the money, John, you know we'd give it to you. We're in a bit of a tight spot at the moment what with your father having a bit of time off -"

It was his turn to interrupt her. "Time off? I didn't even know he had a new job."

"Mm, well, he managed to get a position at Kwik Fit down the road a little while ago but he, ah... well, he got into a spot of trouble one day with a customer and had to take a little unpaid leave of absence for a while." Her cheeks were flushed, embarrassment obvious despite her blasé approach to it all. "So financially we're not as fluid as we'd like to be..."

"Its fine, Mum, I don't need money. I saved up a lot of cash last year working in that pharmacy, remember?"

She nodded, another smile coming to her lips as she brought her steaming mug to her lips and took a small sip. "Of course. You were always good with money. I suppose one of you had to be!"

Another reference to Harry; another awkward moment. "I just never really have anything I want to spend it on. The most I spend tends to be on textbooks and such, and the occasional meal out."

Her spine seemed to snap even straighter than before, instantly alert. "Meals out? At a restaurant?"

John took a sip of his own tea; it was perfect. She really did make a damned good cuppa. "Yeah. Found a little Italian place near campus, really nice spot. Never busy, we never have to make a reservation."

"We?" She was blinking too fast again. "You and... a girl? A girlfriend?"

The tips of his ears began to burn – oh, shit. That had been a quick segue. "No, not... no, I don't have a girlfriend, Mum."

Her lips made a slight moue, disappointment evident. "Oh, well, that's a shame. I'd hoped you meet a nice girl there, so many intelligent young women wandering about the place. None that have caught your eye yet?"

God, this was embarrassing. Even without the image of Sherlock drifting about in the forefront of his mind it would have been hell. "Not really..." Another familiar image, blonde and oval-faced with big blue eyes, glances across heads and knowing smiles. "Well, there's this one girl." That knot of discomfort again, christ, would it not just dissipate? He had known that he would have to lie at some point, or at least avoid the truth. "Mary. She's doing Biology."

"Mary." Sharon let the name settle between them for a moment, her head nodding ever so slightly. "What a nice name. Tell me more about her! Have you been out on a date with her yet?"

A laugh escaped John's throat, remembering as he did how hesitant he had been to even speak to her, let alone ask her out. His last relationship had messed with his head in a big way. Yet another roadblock he was beginning to realise had probably impeded him in realising his feelings for Sherlock. "Ha, no, definitely not. Just... a bit of flirting. What do you want to know?"

The smile on her face was the closest thing to sincere he had seen so far. At least she was distracted. "How about what she looks like?" He could feel the strain of lying start to build up within his face, could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks like fire. She noticed it instantly. "Oooh, you really do like her, don't you? Look at your face!"

"Yeah..." He briefly touched his left cheek with his fingertips, hating every moment of this situation. "Well, she has blonde hair... blue eyes..."

"And?"

"And what?"

Her eyes, darkest brown and nothing like his own, were sparkling. "Oh, be on with you. You like her, enough to tell me about her – you must have more to say about her than that!"

A flash of ice-blue and razor-sharp cheekbones flashed before his eyes. A surge of longing flooded his entire body. "I've hardly spoken to her, Mum, I only know the basics." _(_ _Actually, Mum, he has periwinkle eyes which make me feel as if I'm going to burst into flames every time he looks at me, curly dark hair which can range from somewhat presentable to fuck-me-blind out-of-control, lips so soft and full that when I kiss him it's like tasting the purest sugar imaginable... oh, and his skin is porcelain and perfect and in the right light he looks like a marble statue so fucking beautiful it unnerves me as to the strength of my feelings.)_ "She's nice. She's a nice-looking girl."

Again the disappointment on her face was evident. "I suppose that's all I'll get out of you, then."

"Yep." John started to gulp his tea. "That's it. That's all I know."

"I suppose at your age that's all you need to know," Sharon sighed, finishing her own cup of tea. "Oh, to be young again! Anyway, I don't want to make you uncomfortable -"  _Too bloody late for that._ "My, look at the time – your Dad should be home soon, they usually let out at around two."

John frowned. "They?"

She stood abruptly, turning as gracefully as anyone can turn in slippers and making her way back out into the kitchen – more avoidance. God forbid she make eye-contact when discussing her husband. "He's been going to meetings at the community centre. He has to attend twelve of them before he's allowed back to work."

Meetings... yeah, they'd been down that road before. "A.A?"

"Yes. Run by a very nice woman, I met her last week. About my age but looks about fifteen years younger. I suppose that's part of her charm. They all seem spellbound when she's talking." She began to rinse out various cups by the sink, almost aggressive in her movements. "Your Dad is certainly quite taken with her."

Bloody hell. The implication was obvious. "Well, she's helping them better their lives. People like that are always... looked up to."

Sharon was silent for a moment, the tension growing by the second; finally she cleared her throat, turning off the tap and setting down the last mug on the granite beside her. "Yes. I'm sure that's what it is."

"Course it is," he forced out cheerily, downing the last mouthful of now lukewarm tea and pushing himself to his feet, walking through the living room and into the kitchen with a confident half-smile on his face as she turned and took his cup out of his hands. She would not meet his eyes. "It's like how I feel about my course tutors. Have a tremendous amount of respect for them. I want them to like me."

Mrs. Watson turned slowly to face her son, eyes meeting his with all the trepidation of a deer faced with its predator; once again they were clear, unmoved, unreadable. Her lips curved upwards.

The facade was back.

"Of course they like you, John. You're a model student." Ah. Yet another thing to add to the list of 'Things To Lie About Whilst At Home'. It was... exhausting. "Now, enough chitchat – get up those stairs and put away your suitcase, maybe have a wash. Your Dad'll be here any minute and I'm sure you're going to want to feel refreshed."


	51. Reversal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: Okay, so it wasn't three in so many days but I ALMOST made it! Still, three chapters in four days... not too shabby! ALL ABOARD THE TSO TRAIN!!!!**
> 
> **Comments are... oh, god, they just make my goddamned day. And you lot make my entire LIFE. MY LIFE, I TELL YA!**

**Chapter Fifty-One**

He knew by the knock on his bedroom door that it was not his mother.

"John? Can I come in?"

The voice, that familiar, gruff voice... it was like being sent back to his childhood all in one sitting. Up to a point as a child he had been told the usual line whenever he was in trouble - "just wait until your father gets home!" - and there had been the usual bout of fear and regret and wishing he had just behaved himself, but one year, the year he had turned eight, it had all changed. After months of hearing his mum's voice softly urging from beneath the floorboards, tight throat indicating tears, the pleas John couldn't quite hear meeting the unresponsive ears of his father, the line began to change. Rather than using their father as a threat (which usually simply culminated in Neil Watson stomping up the stairs and yelling at either him or Harry for a few minutes as they sat red-faced and shame-filled on the edge of their beds) Sharon began to say things like, "well, we won't tell your dad about this when he gets home..." and "if your dad heard about this he'd go spare!" - he became almost a mythical figure, someone who was once feared in the way that all children fear the discipline-oriented parent but who no longer existed in collaboration with their upbringing. Harry, ever the rebel, took this as a positive thing and promptly began misbehaving even worse than ever... but John, no, John had heard things that Harry had not. His bedroom was directly above the tiny utility room, a room that Sharon had always used when she needed privacy or a moment away from it all, had heard his mother lost in the pain of practically losing her husband to the newfound love of his life – alcohol – and therefore formed a simple understanding of what was going on. He behaved better than ever, attempted to become the model son, working hard and smiling hard, keeping up that ever-present facade that he had found himself creating at so young an age.

Neil had never been a violent man; even when he was angry he would simply yell for two or three minutes before it all blew over and he'd quickly return to the joking, down-to-earth dad that John knew and loved. Drinking had simply seemed to highlight the lack of violence in his system, made him more passive and less involved than he had ever been before. He would tune everything out around him, barely acknowledge when someone spoke to him, drifting off into his own world where nobody could reach him. In the moments that Sharon had managed to break through and illicit a reaction from him it was just like he had been before – shouting, momentarily flashes of fire and then back to nothing once again, folding inward and slinking off to the garden or shed or wherever else he used to go – in the least horrible way possible John had often wondered as a teenager if it would've been better if his father had simply died.

The days he wondered that were the worst days.

Now, with the myth knocking at his door, John wondered if he would still feel the same as a young adult.

"Yeah, Dad, come in."

The door creaked open slowly; John tried to loosen his fists, forcing himself to stand up as first a foot, then a leg, then finally a body followed into John's bedroom and stood – slightly hunched, thin and looking so very much older than his 47 years – opposite his son.

The two stared at each other for a moment.

"Well." Neil Watson cleared his throat, slipping his hands into the pockets of his jeans and rocking back on his heels. "Your mother wasn't lying when she said you'd lost weight."

"Nice to see you too, Dad," John replied stiffly, reaching forward with a hand to shake his father's hand; long gone were the days of a pat on the back or a rare hug. "You're looking well."

Neil's lips twitched at the edges, eyes the exact colour of John's crinkling a little at the edges. "Don't bother with the BS, son, I know what I look like." He leaned over, briefly shaking John's hand before dropping it as if it were ice-cold. "What've you been eating at that bloody place, dust? Can't tell who looks worse, you or me!"

An attempt at humour; John could barely crack a smile, though god help him, he tried. "Yeah, well, there's not always time to eat when I'm running about campus trying to get from one end to the other so I'm not late to a seminar. I'm sure I'll put it all back on next year."

"D'you need money?" A totally different tone to what Sharon had used, absolutely casual and not in the least bit concerned. "Sure we've got some cash lying around somewhere we can give you if it's a struggle."

John could not stop an eyebrow from raising. "That's not what Mum tells me."

"Huh. Don't listen to her, we're fine. Always worries too much, your mum. How much d'you need?" Neil reached into his back pocket, taking out his wallet and opening it up to sift through the contents. "Fifty? Hundred?"

Staring as his father pulled out multiple notes, an unyielding weight beginning to unfurl and settle within his stomach, John cleared his throat. "I don't need any money, Dad."

Neil rolled his eyes. "Bloody hell, John, it's nothing to be ashamed of. London's expensive, god knows when your mother and I lived there -"

"I have enough money from working last year," John interrupted loudly, a strange roughness to his tone, utterly unfamiliar to both him and his father – he watched Neil's own eyebrows jerk upwards in surprise. "I really don't need your help."

Silence met this revelation; the two of them couldn't seem to tear their eyes from one another, such a stark contrast to John's usual reticent use of eye-contact. If it were possible to communicate without words, to project memories and emotions across a distance without uttering a sound – and John knew from experience with a certain genius that it  _was_  possible – they were certainly doing it at that moment, full-intensity and in such a way that the room no longer felt safe. Truths were being told and honesty was the name of the game, and there was no escaping it. Not even a day in and already the shit was hitting the fan.

Neil was beginning to realise exactly what John thought of him.

Foolishly he tried one last time. "If this is because of your mother -"

"Believe me when I say that I haven't needed your help in a very, very long time, Dad. And if Mum says you're having money issues then I don't doubt her for a second. I don't know where you got that money from or how you think it's as easy as handing me a wad of cash and suddenly everything'll be okay, but  _I don't want it_. The money  _or_  the magic fix."

Things had deteriorated very quickly. Neil looked genuinely taken-aback. John couldn't feel his lips.

The two broke eye-contact.

"Well then." Neil blinked a few times, his hand lifting to wipe at his mouth as if he had felt the full impact of John's disregard for him and it had left him bleeding. "I suppose I've had that coming for a while."

John stared down at the dull blue carpet of his bedroom without seeing, forcing himself to take a step back from both his father and the anger he could feel welling up after years of suppression; he had to get control of this, of himself, it wasn't worth making the visit even more uncomfortable than it already promised to be. Taking a few moments to compose himself, inhaling a deep breath and folding his arms over his chest to lock it back up tight, he nodded briskly and licked his suddenly dry lips. "And that's it. That's done. I don't want to have this conversation whilst I'm here."

His dad seemed to be doing exactly the same thing, a small step back and another clearing of his throat as he tried to gather himself together. "And... if I want to have this conversation? Man to man?"

John gritted his teeth.

His father plundered on. "I can see you standing there, an adult, and I know that you must have things you want to say to me, things you've probably been wanting to say for a long time. I know I've been a mess, son, but I'm... I'm back in group, I'm cleaning myself up, and I think that if -"

"You've been in group before and it didn't take. What's so different this time? What do you think could have possibly - no, no, y'know what? I really don't want to be talking about this. Not now." John half-turned away from Neil, dragging his top teeth over his lower lip as he attempted to once again rein himself in. "I respect... that you're trying to turn things around. And I respect that, at some point, we need to have some sort of conversation about... everything. But not today. Not during this visit." He forced his eyes up to meet his father's, a quick jerk of the head to the side in refusal. "Let's just focus on making this as easy as possible for Mum. I assume you still care about her feelings? Somewhere inside of you?"

Neil flinched back as if he'd been hit, looking every bit as offended as if John had asked something truly unbelievable rather than something that was absolutely justified. "That's a ridiculous thing to ask, of course I -"

"Then work with me. I'll smile, I'll talk, I'll act as if the last fifteen years never happened. You do the same." He could barely believe it was his own voice coming out into the room, strong and authoritarian; it was like hearing someone else entirely speak for him. "She's going to need the lie more than the truth right now, especially with Harry coming over tomorrow."

Once again Neil seemed to flinch. "Harriet's coming here? To see you?"

"Yes. And Mum. And I assume you, too, if she even expects you to be here."

"Is that such a good idea? You know how she and your mother are..."

John shrugged. "Mum seems to be handling the idea well enough. Harry may not be the most subtle of people but she knows better than to start spouting about girls and drink and god knows what else with Mum in the room, especially if I'm there."

Neil seemed unsure. "I'm not sure she's even going to  _want_  to see me, John. Maybe I shouldn't be here when she turns up."

It was a veritable role-reversal; John felt the responsibility of parenthood resting on his shoulders like a universe as his father looked at him with utterly pathetic eyes and essentially asked his permission to be a coward and slip out of the responsibility of facing his only daughter who – if John wasn't much mistaken – probably wouldn't hold her own anger and disgust at their dad under cover as John did. It made him feel sick. It sure as hell wasn't his obligation to tell his father what he should or shouldn't do and he'd be damned if he was roped into making that decision for him.

"Grow up, Dad. Either be here or don't be here, but don't look to me for advice as to how to treat someone you barely know because you were too wrapped up in your own shit to deal with your kids."

Neil took one final step back, looking quite as much a chastised child as a 47-year-old alcohol could when faced with a son who was finally telling him exactly what he should have heard fifteen years ago. It would, perhaps, have been funny if it hadn't been for the damning reality of the situation.

John once again forced his closed fists to relax, dropping his arms to his sides as he delivered the last words they would say to each other in private that visit.

"I'm going to shower now and head downstairs to help Mum with dinner. I'll see you down there."

 

* * *

 

 _**Mycroft Holmes:** _ _Please contact my brother as soon as you read this message. Never in my life have I been forced to leave my own home to escape such incessant sighing._

 _**Mycroft Holmes:** _ _John, please. I returned two hours later and he's still at it. It's like living with a rhinoceros._

 _**Mycroft Holmes:** _ _Do not make me desperate enough to invite Gregory to our home in order to distract him. Believe me when I say that you will not want to deal with the consequences if I have to take such drastic action._

Rolling his eyes as he laid back on his bed (at 9:30pm, for the love of all that was holy, it was THAT bloody awkward to sit with his parents and watch television), John exited Mycroft's pleas for help and hovered his thumb over Sherlock's text conversation window, hesitating a little as he considered what he would say. They hadn't spoken since their little spat this morning and although he was too exhausted – both physically and emotionally - to care about the whole situation he was unsure if Sherlock would be as receptive to communication as Mycroft seemed to think. He didn't want to have to deal with drama, with Sherlock being stiff and unyielding, and if he opened that can of worms now and found himself faced with a grumpy child he would almost definitely lose his patience.

He put down the phone. If Sherlock really did want to speak to him so much he'd just have to set aside whatever stubbornness he was holding onto and just bloody do it, because John had no interest in pandering to him when he was trying to work his way through the mess that was this visit so far. Dinner had been full of stilted conversation, Sharon and Neil barely looking at one another, and watching three hours of TV with them afterwards hadn't been as much of a relief as it should have been – surely taking away the need to talk should have made things easier? But, no, instead the silence sat between all of them like a physical barrier, stretching and moulding and suffocating until John had forced himself to make his excuses and barrel up to his room, closing the door with a gentle 'click' and throwing himself face-first onto the bed without moving for five whole minutes.

It felt so wrong to be here.

Desperately needing a distraction and not knowing where to look (why the hell hadn't be brought a book or something with him?!) he found himself reaching towards the end of the bed, dragging the jacket he'd thrown haphazardly over the edge over to himself and fumbling through the material to find the pocket which contained the black iPod that Sherlock had so 'generously' allowed him to borrow; maybe music would lull him into early sleep and calm his racing thoughts. Slowly he slipped the earphones in, laid back and closed his eyes.

The opening melody to 'Tubthumping' by Chumbawumba filtered through his ears.

"God-fucking- _damn_  it," he growled, ripping the earphones from his ears and throwing the iPod onto the carpet below him – bloody Sherlock and his bloody playlist, ruining John's chance of actually finding some level of solace after such a shitty day. Stupid, idiotic, irritating genius-boy-wonder, bloody bloody bloody  _arsehole_  with no concept whatsoever of what it was to -

His phone vibrated beside his head.

 _**William:** _ _Try the second playlist on my iPod, if you have a moment to yourself._

Mind fuzzy and his head barely able to comprehend, John blinked at the brightly-lit screen in front of him. The man wasn't even there. Observant he may be,  _he wasn't even fucking there._  How had he known?!

How did he always know?

Slowly, almost apologetically, John reached down and scooped the little machine up and into his grasp. Even as he slipped the earphones back into his ears and scrolled through the menus to reach the playlists he found himself wondering what level of hell he was about to unleash, not at all trusting his hope that Sherlock might have actually attempted to do something genuinely thoughtful – perhaps a little Pink Floyd, that would be good – and preparing himself for what he thought would be the inevitable flow of Phil Collins, Tina Turner or ( _ohgodpleaseno_ ) The Corrs.

Hitting play, John waited.

He was not expecting the voice.

"1st of June. 'Due Tramonti' by Ludovico Einaudi. Recorded piano accompaniment by Mycroft Holmes, violin by Sherlock Holmes."

The voice alone would have been enough. Just to hear the depth of tone, the off-handed way in which he introduced the date, song, composer and performers... just to have that rich, velvety sound falling into his ear in the darkness of his small, lonely bedroom would have been enough to send John into sleep with a half-smile on his face and his racing thoughts wrapped up in cotton wool to the point where none of it mattered.

Just to hear Sherlock's voice at a point where he had never felt further from him was enough to make him all at once positively vibrate with relief.

The piano began, soft and certain – apparently Mycroft had lied about his talent being rusty, the bastard – and emitting such a lovely, lulling melody that John could feel the tension in his body start to unwind, uncurling itself from his muscles, pleasant and, despite knowing nothing about classical music, undeniably beautiful. He closed his eyes and waited, knowing it was coming, an odd combination of excitement and awe flooding his veins as he attempted to brace himself for what he expected would be a pleasing experience.

Oh, how wrong he was. How bloody wrong he was.

It was like being in the ballroom all over again. The moment the bow drifted over the first string and filled his ears it was almost as if his entire body had been lifted from the room and transported back to the chandelier-lit memory of realisation and amazement beyond anything he had ever experienced before. He could feel the warmth of bodies around him, could smell the paraffin and perfume, could taste the champagne on the back of his tongue... could see the graceful ebb and flow of Sherlock's languorous arm sweeping back and forth as he dragged from the instrument a sound almost unworldly, and from John an emotion almost destroying in all its severity. It was not a human sensation, it was barely even real – he could feel his hands trembling as they rested upon his stomach, the jolt of his heart every time a new note was played, yet at the same time he could feel the soft texture of his tuxedo brushing against his wrist, the pulse of sudden desperation in the form of a musically-inspired epiphany surging through his barely-present body as he stared up at the genius who so cleverly, so beautifully found his way through the walls and defences and forced John to accept that he had, in fact, loved his best friend all along.

None of the other stuff mattered. His father could do what he wanted, his mother could cope without him; this house was not his home and he did not belong here. All that mattered was this, this moment, this feeling, this infinite knowing of what was huffing and sighing and waiting for him back in Goring. All that mattered was getting through these damned few days and getting back to where he should have stayed.

Fuck it.

All that mattered, right now, was approximately 65 miles away from him.

One hand sent the text; the other gripped the blankets so hard his knuckles turned white.

_I love you. I love you so fucking much._

The reply came as the music ended.

 _**William:** _ _It's the closest thing I could offer you to remind you of my reciprocated sentiment so far away. Don't stop listening. Don't forget. Three days. I believe in you._


	52. Couldn't and Wouldn't

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dear Readers (if there are any of you left),**
> 
> **Yes, the fic is back and, yes, so am I. I won't go into it, I'm far too prone to rambling for too long on these damned things, but business will now be resumed as usual. If it's not too bold of me to suggest - and after the length of time I've been away I would wholly understand if it was - I'd absolutely recommend reading the fic through again, from the beginning, for this chapter to actually mean something. I myself had to re-read it in order to remind myself just how deeply this story runs within me, how much it means to me, and I'd like to hope that it may still mean something to some of you.**
> 
> **Regardless of if you read it all, or even this chapter, I'm sending more love to you than I can put into words.**
> 
> **I am well; I am happy; I am whole.**   
>  **I hope you are, too.**
> 
> **All my love,**   
>  **Moffabeth.**

**Chapter Fifty-Two**

“So. Long time since we've done this.”

A foot came out of nowhere, too fast and foreign for John to move out of the way; the socked toe caught the end of his nose and forced him to roll over across his bed and push himself into a hasty seated position. He glared at the foot and its owner, rubbing his nose a little harder than necessary.

“Don't touch me with that, I don't know where it's been. And we've _never_ done this, Harry, not even when we were kids. We hated each other.”

His older-by-a-few-minutes sister leaned her head back against the wall behind her as she lolled about at the end of the bed, long-limbed and eternally untidy. “I didn't hate you, I just didn't notice you. You were like the annoying, self-righteous little voice in the back of my head that I never bothered to listen to. No offence,” she added lazily, not seeming all too bothered if he had, in fact, taken offence, “you were always just painfully sensible.”

“Thanks,” John muttered, raising his eyebrows as his mind fought to - pointlessly - defend himself, “and offence totally taken.” He let his eyes drift over to her, trying to recognise the pain-in-the-arse, rebellious and endlessly selfish sister he had last seen over fourteen months ago within the ally he had now come to consider her as. Even if she hadn't hated him whilst they were adolescents, _he_ had hated _her._ He felt as if this should make him feel some level of guilt, remembering as he did how much he had loathed her very existence for years, but it was almost as if the last few months that they'd been back in contact had somehow made those years... irrelevant. Clearly Harry wasn't aware of just how strongly he had felt, and if he could protect her from those past feelings and never have any reason to bring them up – especially since they seemed to actually be finding common ground now that they were young adults – then maybe it was better that he didn't feel guilty. Maybe he could just let it go. It would be good, he mused silently, to be able to let _something_ from his childhood go.

 Painfully sensible, though? _Painfully_?

 “I didn't think I was _that_ bad. I just... played by the rules. Tried to help Mum, stayed out of trouble, worked hard -”

 “- and therefore 100% outlining the fact that I was the black sheep of the family and making me even more of a target for Mum.” Harry's eyes were still closed, as if she were simply relaxed in his company, but her next small soliloquy made him wonder if she were actually purposefully avoiding his eyeline. “She was _looking_ for an excuse to let out some of her bitterness, John, and you being the little golden boy who could do no wrong meant that every mistake I made was just another reason for her to project her own feelings of failure onto me.”

 Silence met this harsh, microcosmic view of their childhood and, for the life of him, John could not find the words to say. She had said the words with little-to-no emotion, yet behind the lack of feeling was clearly a lot of hurt, even damage... he had always known that the way she had acted out as a teenager had caused a rift between her and their mother, that much was obvious, but it struck him as they sat in his childhood bedroom together, in closer amicable proximity than they probably had _ever_ been since they'd been old enough to talk, that it was actually pretty damned likely that his close relationship with the matriarch of the family had seriously skewed his view of Harry. She had been his opposite, the rebel, the trouble-maker, the one who went out of her way to drive their mother to despair – late nights, weekend binges, late to or not appearing for dinners and occasions and, on her last day of being a resident of their family home, crashing through the front door raging-drunk with a girl on her arm. She had, for all intents and purposes, created _herself_ to be the black sheep.

 As he flickered his grey eyes over to her again, he found her now gazing at him as if reading his every thought. A small smile edged its way onto her lips.

 “Go on. You know you want to say it.”

 He thought about pretending that he had no idea what she was talking about but, then again, what was the point? “I'm not sure you want to hear it.”

 “I dare you.”

 “Harry, I'm not even sure I want to _say_ it.”

 “Of course you do.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on knees and tilting her head to the side. “Come on, we haven't ever talked about this shit. Do it. Get it off your chest. You've been suppressing it for years, god knows what it's done for your psychological well-being and I'm pretty sure we can both say with confidence that you -”

John raised his hand, stopping her in her tracks. “No. No. Let's steer clear of that last thing, all right? I know I've told you some things about my aforementioned 'psychological well-being', but I don't want to discuss it. If we're going to have this conversation, we avoid referencing any of that entirely. Agreed?”

Harry's lips twisted into a genuinely amused smile. “Pussy. But, all right, I'll keep quiet about it provided you actually tell me what you're thinking right now rather than stomping it down like you usually do. Deal?”

“Hmm.” He eyed her for a moment, the creases in his forehead deepening until he decided it wasn't worth the fight. “Deal. So, essentially what I was thinking was that you – and you can't get angry at me for saying it, you wanted to hear it – you almost seemed to... to _want_ Mum to hate you. You didn't try to be agreeable, you didn't even _try_ to say sorry. You just acted like a total twat and never tried to be anything different.” He folded his arms. “I hate to say it, Harry, but you _made_ yourself the black sheep. Intentionally. Whether I made it worse by being the opposite... well, I'm not sure how much of a difference it made considering what you were like. You didn't try to change for the better. Ever.” 

He had to hand it to her – she seemed to genuinely be considering his words. He watched, fingers drumming against his biceps, as she allowed her thoughts to deconstruct his words; he hadn't ever really studied her before, taken much notice of her, something which seemed strange now that he thought about it considering that they were twins, but now – given the opportunity – he found his eyes roving his sister as if he had never seen her before in his life. He took in, as she mused inwardly, the way she chewed on her lower lip (fuller than his), the small crinkles at the side of her eyes (he had those, too), the subtle squared shape to her head (also like himself); he noticed, to his surprise, that she had an identical little groove on the left side of her face much like his, that her eyelashes were as long as his, that she balled up her fists when she was thinking of things she would rather not think about, as he did. Her dress sense was about as far from his as you could get – eclectic, colourful, bold – and her hair was a wild array of blondes and cut in some shaggy, choppy way that he assumed was probably fashionable, putting her at a considerable distance from his darker, subtle tones of colour and his own uniformly cut hair (even if it was a little longer than usual, not to mention messy as hell from lounging around on his bed with her for half the afternoon) – there were many differences, it was true, but the similarities he was noticing now were almost alarming. He had never really felt a connection with Harriet Watson, regardless of the twenty-three years they'd shared, but he was beginning to.

He was equally alarmed to find that he rather appreciated it.

“The thing is -” John was brought out of his reverie by her voice, at which point he straightened his shoulders and nodded, pulling his focus back to their conversation of before. He met her gaze as she spoke. “ - you talk about not trying to be different, not trying to change, but that seems a little harsh considering who you're talking to, considering what you're going through. Don't you think?”

He pulled a blank. There was no other way to put it. “I'm sorry?”

Harry almost mirrored him, straightening herself and leaning forward more than she already had been. “I'm gay, John. I can't change that.”

Feeling as if he'd been hit by a fifty-ton truck, John blinked rapidly and tried to assort his thoughts so that his words would make sense. “Gay? No, no, that wasn't at all what I -”

“I can't stop myself loving boobs any more than you can stop yourself loving Sherlock.” The fact that she had used his proper name spoke volumes to how serious she was currently being; again, John found himself feeling alarmed beyond measure. “I know it upset Mum – I knew it then and I know it now – but that doesn't mean I could change it... fuck, it doesn't mean that I _should_ change it, even if it were possible. I love women, love everything about them and I wouldn't take that away from myself even if my life depended on it. It's not a choice, but even if it were, I'd still make it.” Her voice had taken on a quality John had only heard a small number of times before, mostly at times when she had been discussing his feelings for Sherlock with him – _impassioned_. She was entirely in her element and, regardless of how much he might want to stop her in order to correct her misunderstanding, he couldn't find it within himself to interrupt when she was speaking with such feeling. “I tried the penis parade, John, I really did, for years until I realised I was as much a lezzer as anyone could be, and it just didn't _do_ anything for me. It didn't set me on fire. It didn't make me feel anything beyond mild irritation and, no offence, disgust. It wasn't for me. But then I met my first girlfriend – though I'm not sure a snog and a little fumble in the Science stationery cupboard counts as a girlfriend – and _wham!_ It was like being hit across the vagina with a bible.”

Once again, John found himself blinking far too fast; the visuals she'd presented him with in the last minute were horrendously difficult to move past. He remained silent, trying to push the images of bibles out of his head.

Harry, her eyes still wide in earnest, tucked a hank of feathered hair behind her ear and shrugged slowly as she gazed intently at her little brother.

“It makes me happy. To know what I like. I would never go as far as to say that my sexuality is who I am as a person, but it's a door to finding my _way_ to who I am. To finding happiness. Accepting that I love girls is like... accepting that I deserve to find love. Do you really think that's something that I should have to change?”

If John Watson had been the sort of man who was comfortable with physical acts of affection, he'd have been reaching for her hand at that moment like his bed was the Titanic and she were a life-jacket – as it was, he could only shake his head emphatically and force his lips to form around the words that were stumbling around his brain like drunken sailors. “No. No, Harry, absolutely... not. Not ever. I would have never...” He stopped, taking a breath and forcing himself to sharpen his gaze upon hers so that, in the very least, his eyes would be able to say what he was failing to from his lips. “When I said what I said before, I wasn't at _all_ referring to your sexuality. I wasn't referring to that. I wouldn't, and I need you to understand this, _ever_ berate you for that.”

Though she seemed genuinely touched by his words, her own lips forming over a vowel which would have no doubt been sentiment if she were into that sort of thing, she simply shrugged and raised an eyebrow to support the next damning sentence. “But you _did_. You did, just like her. You said... felt... what she did.”

Guilt twisted in his stomach like gut rot, painfully heated and not at all undeserved – she was right. He had. Six years ago he had done exactly as he had just said he would never do.

Fuck.

“John? You look like you're about to take a shit on your pillow.”

“I'm sorry.” The words slipped across his tongue, empty and entirely useless. “You're right. I'd forgotten... I'd blocked it out. What I said to you.”

Harry's responding smile was almost sympathetic. “ _You just couldn't stand it, could you? Not being the biggest fuck-up in the family? You just had to go and trump Dad, you had to go and choose to be something you KNEW she wouldn't be able to handle. Well, congratulations Harry, you've officially broken Mum's heart, because apparently an alcoholic husband and an irresponsible, selfish daughter weren't enough and you had to find something to put the final nail in the coffin. Are you happy now? Now that you've wrecked our family for good? Are you happy?_ ”

He stared at her, heart hammering beneath his shirt, stomach hot as molten lead.

She stared right back, tears glittering in her mirroring grey, storm-filled eyes even as she widened her smile to be come almost garishly bright. “You might have been able to forget, but I sure couldn't.”

Well. It was like Sherlock all over again. Apparently love made you do things you didn't really think you were capable of.

John crawled, like a child, over to Harry's side and reached out with shaking hands to grasp her upper arm, pulling her – without much effort required, he noted – against him, wrapping his own arms around her shoulders and hugging her tightly for a moment; it was uncomfortable, physically as well as emotionally, and he was frustratingly aware that a hug meant very little considering what had just been uttered in the space between them, but somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered if closing the physical space between them might be a good step towards repairing some of the damage he had apparently caused. The words were still hanging in the air, and he knew that they wouldn't be leaving his head anytime soon – as he fully deserved, considering how his sister had seemingly memorised their hurtful poison to perfection – but he didn't have new words to drown them out with. He had caused her pain, the self-righteous little asshole that he had been, and he wasn't about to just let her sit there whilst he remained silent.

The words were gruff, would have been embarrassing if he hadn't meant them as genuinely as he did. “I'm so sorry, Harry. I'm genuinely so, so fucking sorry.”

He patted her shoulder, discomfort at the closeness weighing down on him. She seemed to realise this, or perhaps she felt it just as much as he did, and she began to wriggle herself free just as soon as he started to pull his arms away – their eyes met once more for a moment before she sniffed loudly and reared her arm back, laying into his upper arm a punch so hard that he wondered for a moment how much anger she'd been repressing herself against him and temporarily regretting his reaching out to her at all.

They were still siblings, after all, regardless of the breakthrough that they seemed to have just had.

“Dickbag.”

He threw himself to the other side of the bed, trying not to let the persistent guilt still pummelling away at his innards affect his tone. “That fucking hurt, you absolute bitch.”

Harry sniffed again. “Takes one to know one.”

They shared a tentative grin.

John decided that it would be back-pedalling to bring up what he had been trying to explain before – that he hadn't been at all referring to her sexuality as something she should change and, rather, it was all of the _other_ behaviour that had caused such problems between their mother and Harry – and instead settled on plucking his phone from the bedside table next to him, flipping it open to check the time. Seeing that it was only ten minutes until dinner – his mother had been extremely specific regarding which time they would be expected downstairs – he opened his mouth to announce that they should abort their bonding time and make their way to what would be the most awkward family gathering ever, but Harry beat him to speech before he had a chance.

“Nothing from Sherlcock, then?”

He shot her a warning look at her 'affectionate' nickname for his best friend, but didn't correct her. “I wasn't waiting for anything.”

His twin grinned, crossing her ankles and settling back against the wall as she had been before their conversation had taken a rather deeper turn. “Sure you weren't. You two been keeping in touch since you came home?”

“We're not co-dependent, Harry.”

“Wasn't implying it!” Her tone suggested that she absolutely was, and it irritated him no end. “I just wondered how you're both coping with the miles between you after such a fucking rollercoaster these past few weeks.”

John couldn't refrain from rolling his eyes. “Like I said, we're not co-dependent. We're doing fine. It's no different to any other time we haven't been together.”

“Except he's madly in love with you and your eyes go soppy as soon as I mention his name – don't bullshit a bullshitter, John, you miss the crap out of him and you're just too stubborn to admit it.”

 _Ugh_. “I – look, it's none of your business. We've texted a few times, is that what you wanted to hear?”

Harry looked genuinely disappointed, a little line forming down her brow. “Actually, what I wanted to hear was some sort of lovey-dovey nonsense so that I could rip the shit out of you and never let you forget it, so no. You're such a let down.”

Shrugging for what felt like the thousandth time that day, John glanced down at his phone again, this time with a little pang in his chest that he rather wanted to ignore. Damn Harry for even bringing up the lack of a text. “I'm sorry that I'm not acting the way you _want_ me to behave.” Seeing the expectant look upon her face, he sighed, brushing his palms a little too violently down his trouser leg. “Yes, I miss him and, yes, it's... odd to not be with him after the last few weeks. As it would have been before all of the... stuff.”

“Ooooh, _stuff_ ,” she teased, her grin lighting up the room, “what sort of stuff?”

The groan that escaped his lips was nothing short of frustrated. “God, are you kidding me? That's not what I meant, Harry, and you know it -”

“Yeah, but 'stuff' is important. C'mon, tell your big sis, what sort of stuff have you two gotten up to? I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

“Ugh. No. _No_.” John's hands dragged down his face, utterly unwilling and completely uncomfortable. “We're not having this conversation, not now and not ever. I'm not telling you anything like that and I _definitely_ don't want to hear what you get up to with Katie. Ever. EVER. You're my sister, for crying out loud...”

Harry shrugged as if it meant nothing. “It's just sex, John -”

“Christ!”

“ - and I don't know why it makes you so uncomfortable. Makes no difference whether it's Sherlcock or Sarah, it's just... doing the do.”

John peeked out at her through his fingers in disgust. “Doing the do? Are you ten?”

“I'm not the one who has issues talking about sex,” she replied sagely, looking far too superior for his liking, “I was just trying to make it less uncomfortable for you.”

“Well, it didn't work. And I don't want to talk about it.”

Her eyes glittered with genuine, sadistic amusement. “So you two haven't -”

“FUCKing HELL.” John wrenched himself off of the bed and onto his feet, head spinning slightly as he let his arms fall to his sides and he shook his head violently from side to side. “We're supposed to be going down to dinner with two very dysfunctional parents who have no idea that as well as having a lesbian daughter, they _also_ have a son who is in a very questionable friendship with a man who I seriously think might be on the autistic spectrum, and you're trying to convince me to tell you if Sherlock and I have had _sex_?”

Harry thought for a moment.

“Yeah.”

It exploded out of him. “WHY?!”

She leapt up to stand beside him, every bit as chaotic as he was regimented, and offered him a shit-eating grin so wide that it went head-to-head in competition with every similar smile he'd seen on Sherlock's mother's own face since he'd first stepped over the threshold of the Holmes family cottage.

“Because you being a bum-basher means you're just as much a fuck-up to them as I am, and that pleases me in a way you will _never_ understand.”

Panic flooded his system. “You wouldn't -”

“Of course I wouldn't tell them, don't be an idiot!” She kicked him none-too-lightly on the ankle and extended her smile so that her whole face was creased with mirth. “I'm leaving _that_ gem of a confession all to you, baby brother.”

“Good. Thanks. Sort of.” John allowed himself a moment to rein in his wild emotions, wiping his instantly-sweating palms on his jeans and taking in a few deep breaths. “Right, then. I suppose we'd better get this over and done with, then, shouldn't we?”

He reached forward, fingers closing over the doorknob and twisting until the door began to shift open, knowing she would follow. As he walked out, the magnificent scent of his mother's home roast assaulting him the moment his foot met plush carpet of the hallway, Harry's voice floated out behind him.

“So you haven't touched his bumhole yet?”


	53. Obtuse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: Prepare for a fuck-ton of ellipses and italics, peeps, 'cos the Holmes brothers are about to have a very awkward conversation! So much love to all who commented on and read the last chapter - so good to be back! - and know that my adoration extends as far and wide as this crazy-ass world around us.**

**Chapter Fifty-Three**

Tapping. The endless, frustrating, mindless tapping which had failed to cease from the moment John Watson had left the premises.

Or, at least, that's what Mycroft assumed. He'd had the sense to keep away for the first day, knowing as he did just how senselessly nettlesome his younger brother would become once his playmate was no longer present to keep him entertained, and now that he had returned at the overly-dramatic pleading of his mother he found himself wishing that he had retained that good sense and stayed as far away from his family home as was humanely possible.

His eyes narrowed, focusing sharply upon the fingertips drumming the arm of the conservatory sofa.

“ _Must_ you?”

There was no refrain, the four semi-quaver rhythm followed by a short rest still unwelcomingly batting at his eardrums as Sherlock made no sign whatsoever that he had heard Mycroft's displeasure. The older man cleared his throat, rustling at his newspaper as loudly as he could and shifting his position so that he was leaning further back in his chair – not that putting a few extra centimetres-worth of distance would make any sort of difference.

“It won't make it any easier, you know, perching upon your seat with that ridiculous expression on your face whilst you ponder what he might be doing at every given moment. Wouldn't it make more sense to...” Mycroft grimaced, his finely-tuned machine of a mind trying to pick the most appropriate wording, “reach _out_ to him, rather than needlessly obsess?”

The slightest tremor to Sherlock's taut facial expression, the flitting of an irritated eyeline. “I'm not obsessing. I'm thinking.”

Mycroft turned the page, scanning the latest article covering the crisis in Syria and processing it within seconds as he allowed Sherlock a brief, patronising moment of silence before responding. “And that's why you've been sitting there in complete silence for the last two hours, is it? Has your mind slowed so considerably in the past 48 hours?” He tutted, the noise temporarily masking the incessant brush of fingertips against material. “Your sentiment is rendering you obtuse, Sherlock.”

“Oh, shut up,” was the markedly unintelligent reply, “I don't even know why you're here, anyway. Shouldn't you be at Downing Street?”

Now it was Mycroft's turn to shoot his brother an exasperated glare. “Don't be absurd, even if it is your natural disposition.” He ruffled the pages of his newspaper once more. “That's only on a Wednesday.”

“You know what I mean, Mycroft. Why are you here, at home, rather than working your way up to running the country?”

Not especially known for his patience with games, the older Holmes sibling allowed the newspaper to settle into his lap and reluctantly looked across the space between them in order to focus his attention fully on the matter in which he'd been coerced into dealing with, still entirely certain that his mother would have fared far better in dealing with Sherlock's regression into childhood sulks than he would be, but resolved to his fate for at least the very foreseeable future. “Mummy asked it of me. Said you were... _suffering_.”

Sherlock's icy gaze met his. “She's always been prone to over-exaggeration.”

“Very true,” Mycroft mused, allowing the point, “however, in regards to these sorts of matters, she tends to have – shall we say – an _edge_. I'd never insinuate that it gives her the slightest advantage, but Mummy is rather more emotionally intelligent than either one of us.”

The frown which engraved itself upon his brother's brow spoke volumes. “Emotionally _intelligent_? Is there such a thing?”

There was no denying that Mycroft had never used such a reference towards emotion before and, it was likely, never would again – out of the two Holmes brothers he had always been the more emotionally reticent, evidential from many aspects of their history. Even as a child, Sherlock had shown a greater weakness when it came to _feeling_ ; this they had first discovered upon his reaction to the death of their family dog, alongside his foray into recreational drug-use. His more recent dabblings, extreme in their development and depth, were even more of a downfall (at least in Mycroft's opinion, though he was aware from the way that his mother now looked when referring to both Sherlock and John that she was absolutely thrilled at this show of emotional normalcy) and were certain to make for difficult times ahead. Mycroft had never, in all his twenty-six years of life, allowed sentiment to be a mitigating factor in any of his transgressions, and to see his little brother so brutally grasped within the throes of whatever it was between he and his playmate... it was concerning. More than concerning. Whether Mycroft wanted to admit it or not, he knew that – much like himself – Sherlock was a rare entity when it came to matters of intelligence and outlook, and he couldn't at all see a future whereupon this odd breed of friendship between the two students would end well.

The fact that he'd tried, on more than a few occasions, to envision a future where John's existence within Sherlock's life led to a good outcome spoke volumes for how worrisome the whole situation could become.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the prolonged silence. “Stop analysing me. You know I hate it.”

“I assure you, I was doing no such thing.” The words came out as a sigh, not even attempting to mask his irritation. “Though we both know that if I _had_ been, I would have reached a conclusion far quicker than that.”

“At your grand old age? I think not.”

“Such a witty reply.” Sarcasm dripped, bitter, from his lips. “How clever you are.”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock rocked forward until he was standing and proceeded towards the dining room. “I'm bored of this now. You can tell our mother that we had a charming talk about my feelings, perhaps even indulge her enough to say that I wept _heavily_ in your arms -”

“Don't be ridic-"

“- and spoke in a most melancholy way of how deeply I miss and long for John, at which point you comforted me in a warm and brotherly fashion and we parted knowing that we had both shared a meaningful, important moment which would forever strengthen our fraternal bond.” Sherlock glanced back at Mycroft with indifference schooled perfectly across his long features. “That should shut her up for a day, at least.”

“It would be far easier if you would actually communicate with me, you know.”

“Why would I ever want to do that?” Sherlock, despite having seemingly made the decision to leave the room, allowed his body to turn slightly further inwards to face Mycroft. “You know perfectly well that it wouldn't do either one of us any good.”

Mycroft's eyebrow raised ever so slightly, subtle enough that his expression remained the same but impossible for Sherlock to miss. “Just like the last time, then?”

It took only a moment for Sherlock to grasp Mycroft's reference; the last time they had spoken openly, or in the very least the last time that _Sherlock_ had spoken openly, it had been his initial confession of his feelings for John. His face flitted between defensive and annoyed, rapidly changing between the two. “Precisely like last time. Except for the fact that, at this current moment, it seems to have worked in my favour. Not that it has anything to do with you.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft agreed, plucking a non-existent loose thread from his trousers, “but it still remains true that you've spoken to me about such matters before and, apparently, chose me above others. You had your reasons then, so I ask; can you not find them again? If it would... benefit you?”

Sherlock was now entirely facing Mycroft. “You... what? What are you doing? Why are you being like this?” To Mycroft's amusement, Sherlock looked a genuine mix between horrified and disgusted; the expression alone was almost good enough a reason to force his way through this conversation. “You don't want to hear it. You don't even want to be here, that much is obvious, and trying to involve yourself in something you don't even want to acknowledge exists is possibly the most ridiculous waste of time you could endeavour to follow through. So I ask again: why are you doing this?”

Mycroft observed his little brother for a moment, seeming to consider his words. The moment stretched on, their eye-contact prolonged to the point of discomfort, until finally he let his lips separate and he forced out the words he quite ardently did _not_ want to say. “I... worry about you. About how your current situation will affect your... general well-being.”

Rolled-eyes. “Well, now I _know_ you're lying.”

“Wrong.” Mycroft laid the newspaper beside him and lifted his hands slowly to steeple beneath his chin. “I am your older brother and your state of mind is something of importance, whether you choose to believe it or not. If you'll cast your mind back, you'll recall that the last time another human being cast such a weight upon you, you ended up in a hospital bed with no assurances that you would ever fully recover. This isn't just about you, Sherlock.” He cleared his throat, glancing away. “It's about all of us.”

“Ah. I see. So you're here because you're trying to ascertain whether I'm going to cause a scene and make your lives _difficult_ again. How touching.”

“ _Are_ you?”

Sherlock frowned. “Am I what?”

“You know precisely of what I speak.” Mycroft's voice was terse, done with subtlety. “Don't be _deliberately_ obtuse.”

The sigh that was forced from Sherlock's throat was loud, exaggerated, too loud in the silence of the conservatory. “Am I going to take an overdose just because John isn't currently in my company? No, Mycroft. I'm quite certain that I don't need to explain that this is an entirely different situation to that which I was in two years ago, and the fact that I need to say it at all is detrimental to your own far greater intelligence. Perhaps you need to consider which of us is _really_ being the more obtuse, here, rather than throwing questions at me which you already know the answer to.”

Mycroft forced himself to his feet. “Then would you at least admit that you're struggling with the lack of him? I really could be making much better use of my time, as you could with yours.”

The teenager was clearly reaching the end of his already tenuous patience, fingers flicking into loose fists and then releasing once more, body stiff in its obvious tension. “If I do, will you leave me alone?”

“Most willingly.”

“Then, yes.” Sherlock tilted his chin up slightly, pointedly defensive. “I am finding it difficult. I'm finding it difficult if only because he's currently attempting to reconnect with complications rooted far too deeply within his past, and I am not there to read his mood, his state of mind. Instead I'm forced to accept texts, texts which are few and far between, as my only method of reassurance that he is maintaining a hold on his exceedingly delicate sense of balance, all the while knowing that – limited as I am in person – I am now rendered completely unable to do anything of any merit or use from so many miles away. It is... frustrating.” His gaze was piercing, so honest that it took everything within Mycroft's resolve to maintain eye-contact. “And I am finding it difficult.”

Mycroft slipped his hands into his pockets. “So what you mean to say is that you would find this whole ridiculous debacle easier if you were... with him?”

Another eye-roll, this one inherently more patronising than the last. “It's more complicated than that, Mycroft.”

“Then _explain_ it to me.”

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly, the slight and subconscious change of his demeanour – stiffening, chin tilting upwards – indicating that he was attempting to make sense of this request. “I'm not sure you'd understand it even if I tried to explain, considering I'm still in the midst of coming to terms with all of this myself. And I'm still unsure of why you're pressing the matter with such... persistence.”

With a slight shrug, Mycroft allowed a small smile. “Perhaps I'm simply curious. Educating myself, you could say.”

“Liar.”

“Well, whatever the reason, I'm offering you the chance to attempt to explain and – as we both know – oftentimes it makes it markedly easier to analyse and deconstruct ones difficulties in understanding something by voicing the matter at hand _aloud_.” He tilted his chin up in a strange mirror to his brother, to whose appearance he shared barely any resemblance. “Indulge yourself. You seem to be becoming quite adept at that, so take advantage of this rare offering to do so in my presence and let's get it over with.”

Hesitant, and with a flash of what Mycroft could only describe within his emotionally-limited processes as _humanity_ crossing across his younger brother's expression, Sherlock considered this proposal. “I suppose I have to ask again: if I do, will you please put me out of my misery and scuttle back off to your office?”

“With much joy, I can assure you.”

Sherlock nodded imperceptibly. “Very well. Before John left to face his family – let me remind you that his father is an alcoholic, and likely a narcissistic one, as that tends to be a common trait and would explain much about John's own comparative manner with people – we discussed his choice at length, and came to the conclusion that his worry of my opinions of his family and my obvious inability to refrain from deducing each of them individually, as well as their interactions with one another, would reflect badly on his _own_ reading of them. He seemed to come naturally to the belief that I would judge them harshly which, I admit, is probably correct, as I am unable to be objective in the matter...” He pressed his lips together into a hard line, seemingly to collect himself as his rapidfire mind glazed over deductions he'd already made simply from knowing John as he did. Mycroft couldn't deny inwardly to himself that it was fascinating, watching his brother be mutually analytical and emotive. It was foreign to him. To Sherlock. “So it became necessary for him to partake in this journey alone, without my overbearing presence. And that is precisely why he is there, in what is undoubtedly an incredibly dysfunctional familial presence, and I am... here.”

It was a long soliloquy, and Mycroft – in an uncharacteristic show of compassion – allowed him a moment to process his own words. He waited, somewhat impatiently, until Sherlock's distant gaze returned to his.

“Well. That was certainly... interesting.”

“Glad I could entertain.”

Mycroft smirked. “And, so, you're now altruistically – never did I think I'd use that word to describe you, dear brother – staying put at home whilst your paramour -”

“ _Don't_ call him that.”

“ - embarks on his emotional journey back to his damaging past. How poetic of you.”

“Oh, _do_ shut up.”

The two of them shared a gaze: Sherlock, defensive; Mycroft, amused. “And do you not think, perhaps, that it would actually be beneficial to actually put your own emotional well-being first?”

“I... don't be ridiculous.”

Ah. Still defensive. “You've already considered this, I assume. Is that why you're being the way that you are?”

“The way I am? Elaborate.”

Again, Mycroft found himself smirking. “ _In a sulk_. Like a child.”

A muscle in Sherlock's jaw twitched. “Though I don't care to agree with that poor description of my behaviour, yes. My natural instinct is to be selfish, it's no secret, and I've shown that numerous times in the past when regarding John and his feelings. It's a conflict of interests. I know, if not from an empathetical standpoint, that I should be understanding towards John's needs, yet _my_ needs are frustratingly hard to ignore. It's a constant battle, and although the former is currently winning, I'm not sure how long that'll last.”

“So you're awaiting the point in which your natural instinct of self-preservation prevails over your enforced selflessness?”

“Essentially."

Mycroft nodded slowly. “Then, do you not think you may as well... how should I put it... _go with it?_ ”

Sherlock blanched. “What? You're suggesting I just... give in and go to John?”

“You're only human, Sherlock, and a teenage one at that, much as you tend to tell yourself that you're above all of that hormonal nonsense. Regardless of your good intentions, you can only ask so much of yourself before you're simply in denial.”

Against his will, the youngest Holmes seemed to be wavering at Mycroft's words. He began to pick, seemingly without knowledge, at his left thumbnail. “Yet I don't want to cause damage to John's already delicate emotional balance. As a friend, whatever we are, it's my duty to allow him freedom from my high-handed presence. Even if it's not instinctual, it's still necessary.”

It was no surprise to Mycroft that Sherlock was well aware of his flaws, but it was still a discomforting feeling to have him be so open about it. Arrogant as he was, Sherlock's apparent introspection wasn't particularly enjoyable to hear. “Yet, from your own examination of the situation, your failure to uphold that duty is inevitable.”

“...yes.”

As the two brothers stared at once another, misty blue fixed upon verdigris, the heavy weight of acceptance began to fall upon stiffly-set shoulders and it became increasingly and resolutely obvious as to how this conversation, this veritable mess of conclusions, would end. Sherlock would need to be pushed, and Mycroft – then, now and probably in future – would have to be the one in which to fulfil that responsibility.

He smiled slightly, once more raising his eyebrow and looking at his intelligent, ignorant and unerringly foolish little brother with exasperation, though in the right light some would dare to call it something close to mild affection.

“Well, then. What on earth are you waiting for?”

 


	54. Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: That's right, you beautiful people, two chapters in 12 hours. Feels just like old times, eh? ;)  
>  Comments are adored, fawned upon and - of course - replied to.  
> Love, always.**

**Chapter Fifty-Four**

Sharon Watson stared, aghast, at her son, her eyes wide and full of the sort of overly-dramatic fear you only ever expect to see in high-drama soap operas. It was cringe-worthy, if not bum-clenchingly awkward to be sitting opposite. “You... pardon? What did you just say?”

John stared evenly at his mother, trying to maintain a sense of calm in the face of what he had just said, and the obvious ramifications it was about to wreak upon what had been possibly the most uncomfortable dinner between four people that had ever taken place. “I'm pretty sure you heard me, Mum. I don't really want to say it again, if I'm honest.” He gritted his teeth, forcing his gaze down to his plate of half-finished food and pushing a now soggy roast potato around in what gravy was still left. “I'm not exactly proud of it.”

He felt, rather than saw, Harry's shoulders rise beneath him – a shrug, perhaps, casual to the very end, but possibly a general response to the tension which was now emanating from each member of the Watson family; he wanted to warn her, tell her not to speak, but he knew stopping her when she was determined was an absolute waste of time. “It's not exactly surprising, is it? Runs in the family.”

“Harry, shut up.”

John's mutter was meant for her ears only, but it didn't particularly matter or make any sort of difference. The words had been spoken. Sharon was already staring, open-mouthed, at her daughter, offended to the very tips of her fingers if the trembling of her hands was anything to go by. Jesus, this wasn't good. “What do you mean, _runs in the family_? What on earth do you mean?”

Harry glanced up, shrugging again. “Nothing to be ashamed of, Mum, it happens. Life happens. At least he's had the balls to admit it, right? You should be proud of him.”

Sharon's eyes skittered over to John, seemingly unable to comprehend the idea. John's jaw locked, preparing himself for what he assumed would be an emotional barrage. “I... that's absurd. You're just... no, John, as much as I've always tried to be an understanding mother -”

The snort of disagreement to John's right was, he felt, deserved. He knew better than to say it, though.

“ - I can't quite understand how this has happened. I'll always accept you, as you are, but this... this isn't you. This isn't at all like you.”

The silence around the table was awful, awkward, unwanted. Not for the first time, John wished that he hadn't spoken, hadn't come here, hadn't even entertained the idea. It was the wrong time, both to have admitted his weakness and having thought he could actually return home and find comfort in it.

He took a deep breath, raised his eyebrows and forced himself to meet her eyes. “I have depression, Mum. It's not like I'm...”

“ _Gay_?” Harry whispered, an undertone quiet enough that only John would hear – he shoved an elbow into her arm, simultaneously gritting his teeth and fighting the urge to grin. He fucking hated his sister. Hated her, loved her, wanted her to shut the hell up and equally take over with her own special brand of chaos. He became oddly aware of the growing gratitude in his stomach, strange in the face of the situation, at her presence. The fact that she was here at all was a huge gesture, and he was fully aware that it was for his sake rather than her own.

Who knew that Harry Watson could be selfless?

At the word 'depression', Sharon's mouth twisted into a grimace. “Oh, John. You're just exaggerating.”

“No, I'm not.” The strength it took to argue with her was immense, as was battling against the familiar oppression she exuded when it came to all things emotional; it was exhausting, truth be told. This whole bloody ordeal, visit, was exhausting. He hadn't quite anticipated it, the sheer force and weight it would throw at him simply from returning to this house – maybe it was avoidance, or maybe it was just that he had thought he was strong enough, mature enough to handle it now that he had experienced more of the world for himself without the constant pressure of living under this roof and the expectations he had enforced upon himself as the stable, dependable son. Whatever it was... well, he had apparently changed since then, within the space of nine months or so, a considerably short space of time. He wasn't the same emotionally-stunted, decidedly ignorant man-child he had been upon leaving for university. True, he was still struggling to come to terms with _far_ too much these days, constantly overwhelmed with sudden waves of panic at what he had yet to process and understand, it's not as if he was suddenly at peace with feeling quite so much in concentrated bursts, and quite so little in the moments when his mental health restored its power over him, but he was adapting. He was becoming accustomed to it. This place, this house, this family... barring Harry, at least... it was like returning to a cell after a few months in a sprawling villa.

He hated it. He hated the guilt that came with these feelings, loathed the way he had started looking at Sharon in a new light, wished he was still as biased as ever so that it would make it easier to shut out the rest and focus on simply supporting her, as he had always done. It was impossible, though. He was starting to see what she had moulded herself into, the effect it had had on him, the way in which he had shaped _himself_ in order to benefit her. Yes, it had felt necessary and, yes, perhaps it had been the right thing to do at the time, but even now he was coming to realise that it explained so much. So, so much.

As much damage as Neil's alcoholism had caused, as much outward and obvious damage which had been clearly been thrown upon Harry, John was finally starting to see that he had not escaped unscathed.

He cut himself off from his intrusive inner-monologue and focused again on the conversation, keeping his eyes firmly fixed upon his mother. “I'm not exaggerating. I have depression, am depressed, am... struggling.” He took in a deep breath, putting down his knife and fork and moving his fingertips down, placing them against the edge of the table and pressing hard against the tablecloth. “I'm going to counselling.”

“ _Counselling_?”

“Yes, counselling.” Impatience was building up, warm and small in the pit of his stomach. “That's what people do when they have mental health issues, Mum, or at least the ones who want to do better, _get_ better. They reach out and actually _try_.”

He could hear the barb in his voice, the personal nature of it; anyone could, and he could see from the way that Neil – at the end of the table, as far from Sharon as he could get – winced that his judgement was audible. His father, leaning forward and putting his own knife and fork down, attempted to make eye-contact with his son.

“Listen... look, I know I keep messing this up, I know you don't set much store by the fact that I'm trying to get better. I don't blame you.” He dragged his palm over his mouth, trying to pull the words together. “But I'm back in group and I'm doing it right this time. I'm doing my best. I'm _trying_ to help myself, help your mum, get back to the basics without alcohol.”

Harry was the one to speak, midway through a mouthful of peas. “He's not talking about you, Dad. For once.”

At this, all eyes swivelled around to rest upon Mrs. Watson, who was now visibly shaken and clearly out of her comfort zone. As if she hadn't been already, with her alcoholic husband, lesbian daughter and her now self-confessed depressive son surrounding her. It hit John, then, that although he _had_ been referring to Neil, he had never – not once, not throughout the many years he had spent defending, supporting and loving his mother – seen her reach out for help _once_. Not from anyone but him. No support groups, no counselling, no doctors.

The corners of his lips twitched; he had long thought he'd gotten his stubborn denial from Neil but, as it turned out, it was far more likely to be from the one person who he had almost obsessively observed for most of his adolescence and adulthood so far.

The realisation was not a happy one.

Sharon seemed to feel the same way. Her voice was quiet, tremulous. “Don't. Don't you dare.”

Harry stared at her, incredulous, but John took the opportunity to quickly cut across what would have likely been a rather harsh representation of the feelings currently drifting across the table like a bad smell. “Harry didn't mean anything bad by it, Mum, she just meant... she just thinks...”

He trailed off; he didn't know what to say. All he knew was that his instincts to protect Sharon had kicked into gear, instincts which were long-standing and hard to overcome, yet at that precise moment he didn't know how to defend her.

His silence was Harry's gateway and, as she always did, she steam-rolled right into the fray without looking back. “Give it a rest, would you? I love you, Mum, truly I do, but we all know that you're as fucked up as the rest of us.” John closed his eyes, dread flooding his body and paralysing any sense of knowing what the hell he was supposed to do to stop this. It had escalated so quickly, too fast, like it always did. “You've been depressed for years, glazing over it with flowers and cups of tea and narcissism -”

Surprisingly, it was Neil that cut in to defend his wife. “Now listen here, Harriet, you don't _ever_ talk to your mother that way. With the crap I've put her through, the terrible husband and dad you all know I've been -”

“Oh, _you_ can shut up, too, with your self-pitying bullshit. Yeah, you've been a shit husband and a shit dad, but this isn't about you – again, _for once_.” Harry finally gave up any pretence of eating dinner, dropping her knife and fork with a clatter and folding her arms tightly against her chest. “Mum's been dealing with this like it doesn't exist for years, and look what it's bloody done to her. What John was saying -”

_No, I wasn't,_ John thought inwardly, horror at the situation numbing his ability to say it aloud.

“ - is absolutely right. You could've dealt with this so much better, in a healthier and more... I don't know, _fulfilling_ way if you'd only admitted you were struggling in the first place. If you'd actually been brave enough to reach out for help, like he did. Pull your head out of your arse for the first time in your life and stop telling your own son that he doesn't have depression, stop pretending that your life isn't shit, stop acting like I don't exist just because I like to shag girls. Stop being a closed-minded idiot and, for the love of god, _stop invalidating_ _everything_.”

It was too much, it was too harsh, it was... well. It was what it was. It was Harry. It was Harry speaking her mind, like she always did, and not much caring whether she did it with sensitivity. The clock on the mantelpiece was ticking too loudly, the whirr of the extractor fan was too sharp, the quick and shallow breaths Sharon was taking were too audible. It was hell. This was hell. It couldn't have been worse, not at all, not even slightly and John didn't know which way to turn. He didn't want his mother to be hurt, he didn't want Neil to feel guilty, he didn't want Harry to silence herself. He had no fucking clue what to do, wished he had never fucking spoken, and fuck it all anyway because what did it matter if he had depression when he had _this_ shit-show waiting for him behind the curtains? His life was a bloody soap opera, and he'd just delivered the second worst news he could have ever brought to the table – why, he had no idea. Maybe it had been the way they'd all been skirting around the tension, or perhaps it had been to stop Neil's terrible attempts at casual conversation; he didn't know, and he didn't care.

He'd fucked up by being honest about something real, something which was partly defining his waking moments, and now he had to deal with the consequences.

He could barely bring himself to but, from somewhere inside of himself, he raised his head and looked his mother straight in the eyes; it was terrible. It was... familiar. They'd taken on that dead-eyed glaze, the haziness of cutting off from the moment, the same look she'd had so, _so_ many times in his childhood, and knowing that she had done it – at least in part – because of what he'd divulged... god, it was awful. He had to fix it. He had to do _something_ , he couldn't just leave it like this.

“Look, it doesn't matter. None of it, this, that, none of it. OK? It doesn't matter, because I'm getting help and Dad's in group and Harry... well, Harry's gay, and that's always been all right. And you...” He trailed off for a moment, desperately searching for something, yet another something, anything that could placate her and cancel out this whole damned situation. “You're my mum. Harry's mum. Dad's wife. You are who you are, and I... love you.” He stared at her, willing her to hear it, willing for it to somehow mean something. “I love you. I'm sorry.”

And there it was. John Watson, apologising. John Watson apologising for something which wasn't his fault. John Watson repeating himself, repeating himself as if he were still a teenager apologising to his mother for something he wasn't responsible for. John Watson taking the blame. John Watson finding fault within himself, internalising it, making mistakes that weren't his a part of himself – only this time he wasn't made of stone. He wasn't protected by the barriers and walls that he had built up before. Some of them were still remaining, battered and bruised but still there, yet the last few months at university, the last few weeks at the cottage, the whole fucking experience of Sherlock Holmes had broken him down to such a point that he couldn't _help_ but feel the weight of it all. And it was too much. Far too much. Angst and anger and... _and_. And too much.

He did not want to be a part of it.

Without even taking into consideration what he was doing, what he had already done, John found himself pushing his chair back from the table as he stood, quickly, so quick that his head span; he saw Harry's gaze follow him, his father's surprise, his mother's blank stare at the salt and pepper shakers in front of her. He saw concern, guilt, apathy.

How had it taken him so long to actually _see_ it?

His face lowered slightly to the side, letting his eyes flicker down to meet Harry's, and found his own desperation to get the hell out of there mirrored in her own. “It was good to see you, y'know. You should come and visit me at uni sometime.”

She mastered the understanding of his state of mind instantly, his intentions. “You're leaving? Now?”

“Wild horses couldn't stop me.”

At this, Sharon's head jerked to the side and her eyes finally came to rest upon him – they were hazy, slightly unfocused. _Familiar_. “Why? John, why?”

Something rocked wildly within him, a cross-section of panic and the slower surge of guilt. “Why am I leaving? Why am I depressed? Why am I sorry?”

Slowly her head shook from side to side, her own body following his as she rose from her seat as if in slow motion. “You don't... you don't have to leave. Don't leave.” A thread of desperation, masked instantly by a smile – christ, it was almost scary. The switch. The switch which could be flipped in her head whenever she wanted it to be. Her lipstick cracked, her face frozen in place, utterly in control despite what she was truly thinking, feeling. “Don't leave, sweetheart. Stay. You haven't even had dessert yet. You're not supposed to leave for another two days.”

“I -” his voice cracked, and he could've sworn he almost saw his own father wince at the obvious emotion behind the single letter, the single syllable, “ - I _can't_ , Mum. I can't stay. You know I can't.”

“But why?”

She was like a child. Another reversal, just like his dad all over again only, when it came to Sharon, it wasn't pathetic. Just sad. Just terribly, awfully sad. Still the smile, still the amazing capability she had to falsify her own emotions, but he could hear it. He could always hear it. Better than anyone else, he could hear when his mother was losing her resolve. He walked, tentatively, with care, around to her side of the table and reached out with a gentle hand – foreign, really, as physical affection wasn't exactly considered the normal way of things in their family. He could see, within the seconds it took to gently take her hand in his, her body tense at the mere anticipation of the action.

It didn't stop him. He squeezed her fingers as lightly as he could, so breakable she now seemed to him. Already so broken. He could not fix her, he had never been able to fix her regardless of all of his best efforts. Despite all he had realised over the past few days – her horrendous behaviour towards Harry, her unintentional but still undeniably damaging conditioning of his behaviour, the sheer narrow-mindedness that she simply could not change, no matter how much her children desperately needed her to – he could feel nothing but pity. It was an emotion he loathed, a useless waste of a feeling, but it clung to him like oil and would, he knew, be a stain that he would find near impossible to remove on his own.

He gazed into her eyes, knowing as he did that this would be the last time he would see her for quite some time. “Because sometimes, just sometimes... you have to know when you're beaten.”

And that was that. John was done. He was done. He gave her hands one last squeeze, leaned forward and pressed one last kiss to her perfectly powdered cheek, and then he turned away and looked towards Harry without a single moment of hesitation.

“Coming?”

She practically leapt up from her seat, plucking from her plate the last remnants of a roast potato and throwing it in her mouth as she nodded. “Yep. Grab your stuff and I'll walk with you to the station.”

He turned on his heel – no need to say anything to Neil, he didn't owe him that, nor much else – and marched into the hallway, taking the stairs two at a time and throwing his door open. He strode resolutely over to his almost completely untouched travelling bag, sitting exactly where he had left it at the foot of his bed, grabbing the few pieces of clothing folded neatly over his desk chair, throwing them unceremoniously amidst the rest of his clean clothes and took one last journey over to his rumpled bed to pluck his mobile phone from its place on his pillow.

No text message.

Not allowing himself even a modicum of a thought about it, knowing as he did that he was about as emotionally raw as he'd ever been – even more so than he'd been after the ball, difficult as it was to comprehend – he shoved it into his pocket and turned to face the door.

Harry, standing in the doorway and idly picking at a nail. “Ready to go?”

A curt nod.

“Since the second I arrived.”

**X X X X X**

He knew, as soon as the door opened, that John was no longer there.

His fist clenched lightly within his pockets, nails digging into his palm. “When?”

Neil Watson stared at him as if he had never seen a human being before, eyes flitting behind the young man and skating across the sleek lines of the black limousine, then back to the steely ice of Sherlock's penetrating gaze. “I'm sorry, what? Who are you?”

“I _said_ , when?”

Uncomprehending. Drained. Emotional. _Useless_. “When what? Are you...” Neil eyed the car again, clearly flummoxed. “Are you at the right address?”

Vitriol, anger, _rage_ flooded his synapses, shutting down all of the parts of himself which he needed in order to focus on the matter at hand: ah, adrenaline, yes, such a wonderful rush to his system and yet entirely unhelpful – the opposite, and the fact that he was at least able to understand that was a mercy considering he was suddenly so hideously furious at this man who would have been far better placed on the other side of the earth from John Watson that he was quite unbalanced from sheer _irrationality_.

He had to maintain control. It would not do him, nor John, any good if he were to punch John's father in the face.

Sherlock opened his eyes.

_Focus_.

“I'll ask you one final time and, as you're a complete moron with the deduction skills of a sewer rat, I'll be more specific: when did John leave?”

Neil's mouth dropped open slightly, likely attempting to process the insult, the question and the subtle and yet – in Sherlock's mind – perfectly rational threat underlying both. He took a few seconds, far too long, his tongue shifting uselessly behind his teeth as he struggled to find the words to answer the simplest of questions.

A fist curled deep inside Sherlock's pocket, preparing to use it.

“He...” _Damn._ “He left two hours ago, with his sister... listen, seriously, who -”

“Tell me everything,” Sherlock voice cut sharply across his ridiculous and pointless attempt at interrogating him, him of all people, taking a step forward with entirely no intention of doing so, noting the instantaneous step back that the coward was now taking from him and not caring in the slightest that he had so easily intimidated him; good. _Good_. “Tell me everything, and don't even think for a moment to skimp on the details. Tell me, now.”

Neil put out a hand – so obscene, so farcical that he should think a single hand could stop Sherlock at this precise moment – and shook his head, dazed, _useless_ , so very useless. “Now hang about, you can't just demand -”

“Now _._ ” Sherlock's eyes blazed, unforgiving, unrelenting, undeniably past the point of reason. There was not, he knew, a single thing he would not do in order to make this man speak, and he was not entirely certain of retaining his own sanity if he were to reach that point. He allowed him one, final chance.

“ _Now_.”

 


End file.
